


Microwave Grapes

by Beabaseball (beabaseball)



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Adoption, Background characters - Freeform, Big Brother Sans, Child Papyrus, Child Sans, Cinnamon Roll Papyrus, Clones, Dad W. D. Gaster, Dadster, Disordered Eating, Dubious Morality, Ethics, Experimentation, Families of Choice, Family, Fluff and Angst, Food, Gen, Harm to Children, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Refrenced Suicide Attempt, Medical Experimentation, Morality, Origin Story, Original Character(s), Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Sans Has Issues, Submit Original Characters, Unethical Experimentation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2018-05-11 21:44:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 53,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5643043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beabaseball/pseuds/Beabaseball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaster's not even really interested in CS-1 or project PERSEVERANCE, he's just working on it because the current Royal Scientist told him to, and the king told the Royal Scientist to look into the option in the first place, so, hey, there's really not many ways he can argue his way out of this one. He'll just wait for the experiment to fall flat on its face so he can get back to the projects he actually wants to work on.</p><p>(CS-1 wasn't supposed to have a <i>mind</i>, and Gaster was not supposed to care about him.)</p><p>((now with companion askblog- http://askmicrowavegaster.tumblr.com/ ))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The position of Royal Scientist was not strictly talent-based, nor actually necessary for the running of the underground, but it _was_ heavily vied for. The Royal Scientist didn’t have to worry about funding, and the King largely gave them free reign, so long as specific requests and routes of investigation were humored.

W.D. Gaster, an assistant to the current Royal Scientist, mostly had his eyes on the position so he could stop being under anyone’s thumb.

As it was, he was not the current Royal Scientist. The gilled Royal Scientist didn’t look like they’d kick it anytime soon. So Gaster was stuck where he was for the moment. Watching over the result of the King’s newest request.

With as few monsters as the underground had, and with promise of another war on the (distant) horizon, it really wasn’t so unusual for scientists to either test things on themselves or create a subject for testing, rather than risk a guard member or civilian. The current project was a rather interesting combination of both subject options—several long weeks ago, Gaster had been asked to scrape off a bit of the surface of his arm bone to be used in a cloning experiment, working on the assumption that the simpler the form, the simpler it would be to adjust its properties to DT. There were few monsters simpler than skeletons.

Of course, the whole thing was starting to look like a load of shit from where Gaster was sitting. The little skeleton had definitely been warped and deformed by the DT vat they’d submerged him in, which was a bit disturbing to look at, but, the bottom line was: CS-1 was inanimate

He always had been, and it looked like he always would be.

From where the little body was laid out on the table, the bones all stayed in place, held together by a magical magnetism that might’ve been understood as a form of homeostasis, but it was a brittle magnetism that meant if Gaster wanted, he could have reached over and pulled the little skeleton’s arms off without exerting any more force than he needed to pick up a full mug of tea in the morning. What little magic _did_ reside in CS-1 to hold him together was directly the result of an IV modified to be useful to skeletons—standard injections were a bit difficult when you were nothing but bone, marrow, and magic—that kept up a steady flow of magic to keep the body stable. So even if homeostasis could’ve been argued, it was an artificial one, like keeping a cut flower in a cooler to stop it from wilting so quickly.

He had no response to stimuli. Adaption was a bit off the table. CS-1 hadn’t undergone growth since his removal from the tube he was initially cloned in.

Grumbling in wingdings, Gaster clicked his fingers and twitched his hands, knowing no one else in the lab really knew how to understand the gestures’ meanings. At the same time, he tapped his pen against his clipboard, glancing once more at the bed where the little skeleton lay on a thin mattress, covered only by a light blue blanket. His ribcage was partly exposed, his eyes closed, and his jawbones set into a smile much wider than any Gaster had ever had as a child.

The DT soak really had done a number on him. If nothing else, they were getting some data from _that_ experience.

…They were probably getting nothing else out of this, and even though Gaster was not head scientist, he certainly had other projects he would’ve been much happier to observe than CS-1.

Still. Science was science, and the vast majority of science was waiting impatiently for something boring to do something cool.

It didn’t seem like that was going to happen anytime soon, though, so Gaster sighed, clicked his fingers a bit more, and put his pen to paper, filling out the hour’s observation slot in standard writing, rather than wingdings. These notes had to be accessible, however identical they were to all the reports before.

_No magical fluctuation_

_No chemical fluctuation_

_No noticeable physical growth_

_No response to standard stimuli tests_

_Mutations stabilized—bone mass fully solidified and shows no signs of further malleability_

There was some temptation to add _no noticeable point for me to keep doing this_ , but he resisted, instead tapping out a quiet _if this were anymore pointless, it’d be a circle_ on the side of his folding chair, when he heard a sound that didn’t come from his hand.

It didn’t sound like any of his coworkers entering, nor like any of the machines in the room—it was a rather sparse room, in fact, and Gaster had spent enough time inside it these last few weeks he was certain he’d heard just about every sound that came out of it.

He might have dismissed it as his imagination, had it not been for the faint pressure of magical energy that accompanied it, and the sudden lack of sound from one of the sparse machines in the room.

The M2MM had fallen silent. No alarm, no quiet hum of an alternating magical current, just the sudden lack of the constant buzz of measurement. Gaster looked up, confused and verging on startled. He intended to check the M2MM and make sure the linked IV hadn’t also somehow failed, but froze.

CS-1 opened his eyes.

Gaster shoved his clipboard and pen aside, letting out several startled gestures before he could fully process what he was seeing.

A blue glow—like fire, like _plasma_ —erupting out of CS-1’s eyes, before it flashed to yellow and back again to cyan.

CS-1 blinked when Gaster stood. The flashing irises flicked to his position, still spitting out gobs of energy that sputtered into the air and rolled down his cheeks.

A splatter of magic flew higher into the air than the others, flicking by Gaster’s face close enough to sear. It missed, though. For the most part, it missed. But it was still hot and stung like a burn.

Gaster leapt away from the attack, fighting down the urge to call his blasters. Instead, he swung his arm wide, summoning the discarded clipboard and using it as a shield against the assault.

He raced to the call button on the wall, jabbing it into activation and spoke so quickly he fell into wingdings before his brain could catch up and translate.

_CS-1 is awake and volatile in room 274. Repeat—_

_CS-1 is awake_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sup motherfuckers i'm in bolivia fighting my way through bad internet connections and boredom to bring you this. I got in deep into undertale since Christmas and all I really want is a story for Sans' past that doesn't involve Gaster being a horrible, abusive douche. Good Guy Gaster who adopts highly unstable experiments and teaches them metaphysics. That's what I'm here for.
> 
> while starting ch 2, I realized that, by necessity, I'd need a bunch of OCs to populate Gaster’s lab and the Capital, as background coworkers and interactions if nothing else. So send me in some OCs! They can be yours you've had for years or they can be made up on the spot, but send me in at the very least a name, a monster description/species, and a thing or two about them, minimum. The more detailed, the more I'll have to go on, but I will fully accept submissions that look like: “Beartice, a brown bear lookin monster. Scientist. Favorite food is mayonnaise.” Please help me out here. If you wanna send in a fully formed OC, I make no promises about how they’ll turn out in this fic, but dang, it’ll be a cool thing, won’t it? Speaking of, though: help me design the current Royal Scientist. The only thing I’ve got for them so far is they’re kind of a dick, got gills, and tbh hate Hotland. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and for any OC submissions!! Hope you enjoy whatever this thing turns into!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaster wonders if he could consider this 'damage control.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minor DT-based body horror in this chapter

He wasn’t unhappy when he was inanimate. Or, when he thought he was inanimate. It was sort of fuzzy. From his awakening on, he liked to think he remembered things pretty well, but before that, he lacked a—timeframe?

He wasn’t unhappy when he was inanimate—he had never been unhappy. He wasn’t bored. He’d never been entertained. He wasn’t sad. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t apathetic. He just _was_.

He woke and slept without change to heart rate or mental wavelengths. He didn’t know there was a difference. At the time, there hardly was. He listened. 

He dreamed in sound.

_click swiff tap tap tap tap tap tatch click click snap crack crackle pop slip crack snap swuff apologies i talk to myself in a way that won’t disturb others i did not mean to trouble you snap snap tatch tap click scrape scrape tatch tap_

Meaningless sounds, but they were what he knew. Meaningless sounds, and the gentle swell of !!! in his—he’d later know the location as his chest. Later know the ‘!!!’ as magic.

The magic and the sounds were the only things that really changed around him. Therefore, they caught his attention, even as he was fully aware of the mattress pressed against his back, the occasional shifts of his blanket, and prodding of external fingers. They were less interesting sensations. Occurred less frequently. He paid attention when they did, but more often than not, his company was the sounds and the !!!.

The !!! was—it was warm? It changed temperature. It flickered and pulsed and rolled. Sometimes it grew thin. Sometimes it came in a steady wave. A swell. It crept from his chest down his bones, tickling his kneecaps and warming his shins, making his hands feel real. It was soft and fuzzy and liquid, and he tried to hold onto it. Grasp it. Keep it inside.

He did not know frustration. He’d never had expectations.

Then came the day he realized he could feel (though he didn’t _realize_ , so much as come into a gradual, immediate acceptance of the fact), feel the warmth emanating from _within_ his bones. From the very center of him, rather than flowing from some external-elsewhere. He’d never felt something internal before, hadn’t known externality existed. The !!! was warmer when it came from within. It was thicker. It was easier to hold onto.

He clung to it.

He clung to all of it. Would never let it out of his bones.

Didn’t know how long he clung, or when it became stifling, but when the first prick of pain came—

He dropped it.

He dropped it all.

He’d never felt pain before.

Then, he opened his eyes, because pain was all he knew.

000

It was a small hell, moving CS-1 to a saferoom. It would’ve been a challenge regardless, but Gaster forewent sedatives, fearing that a hasty dose may put CS-1 to sleep, and he may not wake up again.

After weeks of observing his inanimate body, Gaster had to admit that the vessel being awake was infinitely more interesting, though he wasn’t particularly fond of what was turning out to be a death by inches. He was too paranoid to discount is as a real possibility from the blue magic still bursting out of CS-1’s eyes, searing anyone who got too close.

Still. It was weak magic. They burns were small. The glaze on Gaster’s cheek bone was less than 1 HP’s worth. He’d forgotten the injury entirely by the time a guardsman who could block the assault arrived. Still, he _had_ waited for a guardsman before attempting to move the subject.

It wasn’t a perfect system, crouching behind a much shorter guard while fighting through the haze of electric blue, taking control of the cot, and hoping the hallways leading to the nearest an observation-containment area had been evacuated by the time they started moving.

The containment room was an even sparser one than what they’d initially been keeping the subject in. Empty white walls, a few sensors in the ceiling, and the newly-introduced gurney, IO, and thin sheet the subject had been wheeled in with. Along one wall was a long, rectangular observation window, which could function as a one or two-way glass, depending on the observation room’s light settings.

For the moment, Gaster had the lights set high, allowing CS-1 to see him on the other side of the glass. Though having another presence might not exactly be a comforting thing for CS-1, it would probably be better than waking up for the first time ever and immediately being locked in a room, completely alone, with one’s own out of control magic.

This time, Gaster dictated his notes into a recorder built into the observation room’s console—a long line of computers and control panels set into the wall just below the window, hooked into the lab’s intranet, so that all information was saved the moment it was entered. Even for someone like him who avoided verbalizing things when he could help it, it was a faster way to record time-sensitive information. Once the standby button flicked off and the recording went live, he spoke quickly in Standard, even as his hands twitched along habitually to his words.

“Sixteen hundred hours and twenty-three minutes, subject CS-1 woke for the first time and began magical expulsion. The bullets themselves are weak—initial contact produced less than 1 HP of damage—but the sheer volume of the assault makes it threatening. Moved to Containment Level 3; magic has been in a continuous expulsion for—” he checked the corner clock, “—approaching thirty minutes. Accurate energy levels cannot be recorded, because _he melted the wires to the M2MM_ after melting its connected alarm circuits. It is unknown at the moment if this surge has been building and the melting of the wires was gradual, or occurred at the time of expulsion.”

The Royal Guardsman who had helped shield Gaster took that moment to enter the room on the heels of—fuck—Gaster’s current supervisor. Ursama was tall and covered in brown fur—not a boss monster, but possibly distantly related. The guard behind her in full armor, standing a good two heads shorter than Gaster. Gaster bet they were a sort of lizard. He waved them both off with short, sharp gestures, continuing the log and glancing back up and down at the containment room.

“CL3’s M2MM is faring equally poorly. Last recorded level was 6.7D and-counting. Body temperature rising rapidly. IO still connected. Subject has not actually _moved_ , only expelled magic, which—is not damaging inanimate objects, and has only done minor damage to monsters struck.”

Ursama made an odd sound from her station beside him and stood up a bit higher on her toes to confirm Gaster’s report. As irritating as it was, it was good to have a second set of eyes on what was happening—a third set, if the way the guard was shifting in the back wall was any indication.

CS-1’s magic was still swelling, filling the whole room with a sharp blue glow, much as he had the first holding room. Sparks of white and yellow, like suspended electricity, laced through the blue haze. They rustled the blanket over his lower half, sent the IO shifting dangerously, but nothing actually appeared damaged.

Very consciously, Gaster brought one bony hand to his cheekbone and rubbed over the place the blue spurt of magic had seared him at the start of all this. Despite how little time had passed, he could only tell the damage had been done by phantom sensations and the odd, rough texture to his bone that hadn’t been there before.

Perhaps they hadn’t had to evacuate the halls. Still, it had been the right call. There may have been unforeseen effects of the magic, or someone fleshier may have had a worse reaction. Maybe the similarity to Gaster’s own magic had spared him the worst of it. The subject _was_ his biological replica, minus a few mutations here and there.

Except Gaster’s magic _definitely_ worked on his surroundings and injured other monsters, so why—?

He stiffened. His middle fingers twitched, and he remembered verbal words. “…it is possible we and the surroundings are not the target of his assault.”

“Wingdings.,” Ursama said, voice sharp. “What is—?”

Gaster looked up through the glass again.

A lump of bone melted off the skeleton’s cheek.

Gaster had always had a strong stomach. Not actually having a physical stomach helped, but he still felt disgust and revulsion at particular sights and reacted involuntarily if the sensations were powerful enough.

This was one of those times, and did not control his next actions.

He fled his seat where he’d been recording and wrenched open the medical cabinet at the far side of the room with his magic. Containment zones always had sedatives nearby, just in case. It was the calculations that were a bitch. CS-1 was too small for a standard dose, and skeleton’s physicality made proper dosage even more complicated, but— He summoned one of the milder sedatives and carried it with him as he burst into the containment room.

His initial plan had been to wait for CS-1 to tire himself out naturally before trying to approach again. Scrapped.

If CS-1’s was targeting himself, or his magic was fully out of his control and he was suffering the side effects of that—sedation or no sedation, either way, there was a chance the skeleton wouldn’t wake up again.

Both flashing eyes locked onto Gaster the moment he entered the room, wide and—if Gaster wished to project emotion onto a being that didn’t have them—fearful.

He cracked a curse word out on his fingers.

The eyes focused a little more, and shot to his unhindered hand. That was not what surprised Gaster.

The magic in the air flickered, and appeared to dim.

For a moment, he thought the slow-melting stretch of the skeleton’s face seemed to halt.

“Sir.” Gaster turned slowly to look behind his shoulder and spotted the royal guard standing there in the connecting doorway, spear in hand and posture straight, even as they glanced around with something like nervousness. From the window, Ursama watched, her beady eyes narrowed and arms crossed in front of her chest. “Is this safe?”

Gaster shrugged. He turned his attention back to the subject and found those flickering eyes were still focused on his hands. Bone was beading at CS-1’s forehead again. It was subtle, but Gaster’s eyes really _weren’t_ deceiving him back in the observation room—the skeleton was morphing and melting slowly, right before their eyes.

(He was not going to lose a test subject that had already cost him _weeks_.)

A third plan formed in his mind. Sedation took time to kick in. Other forms of calming were—

Gaster clicked out the same curse word as before, slower this time, annunciating with each gesture and sound. Wingdings was an odd language in that it could be understood with only audio or visual, but was meant to be interpreted in tandem—one without the other was like reading a sentence without any grammar, or hearing someone speak in complete monotone.

CS-1 was looking at Gaster’s hands with far more attention than one would’ve when encountering a new sound. No, CS-1 was looking at Gaster’s hands in _recognition_.

If this worked, sedation may not be necessary at all. He still had it on hand as an option, if things were ineffective or dire, but keeping CS-1 conscious was certainly what he preferred to do at the moment.  Didn’t want to lose all those weeks in the room. Didn’t want to sedate only to learn it wouldn’t stop the melting.

Gaster lifted his right hand—the one not holding sedatives—and clicked it slowly, forming the symbols by twitching and bending his wrist and fingers. _Attention_ , it meant, _pay attention_.

Once he’d confirmed CS-1 was still watching, despite the maelstrom of magic continuing to spark around them, Gaster rotated his hand, and held the world above his palm captive.

Gaster’s magic was darker than CS-1’s corrupted version. Deeper. Perhaps a hair closer to purple. It moved languidly, not in the electric rush that CS-1’s did. If CS-1’s eyes could’ve opened any wider without losing shape entirely, Gaster wasn’t aware of it.

Gaster’s magic wasn’t made for deflection. His magic was honestly rather neutral, all things considered, but at the moment, he would’ve been quite happy with being able to form a functioning shield. He clicked a little more ( _calm, calm, calm_ ), his magic rolling with his movemnts, and approached CS-1’s bed. The closer he got, the harder it got to ignore the constant sting of electric blue and yellow. He tried, regardless.

CS-1 stayed still the whole time, his irises and the occasional blink the only exception. His hands stayed still by his sides and his legs lay lifeless beneath his thrashing blanket. Despite that, the blue magic continued to flinch back, perhaps reacting to something internal. That was good. It further credited the theory Gaster was currently working with:

Magic typically manifested in a monster over the course of growing up. They adjusted to their magic the same way one adjusted to a growing limb.

CS-1 had awoken with his abilities apparently already extensively formed—if not _fully_ formed—yet, without experience, without the intellectual and cultural knowledge of how to control or contain his magic. It was like putting a toddler who’d just learned how to walk in the body of an adult five times their size and telling them to go run a marathon. The CS-1 was just fortunate Gaster knew a few things about being trained to do what came naturally to others.

(He would’ve been ever so disappointed if his biological replica weren’t a quick study.)

It was painful to walk into the spray of blue. Painful, but not unbearable. The more he spoke in wingdings—regardless of the words themselves—the more the subject’s magic tried to jerk away from him, the same way another monster’s might when they wished to spare but were pressured to keep fighting. Either CS-1 had some innate protective instinct, or curiosity was winning out over fear. Good.

Gaster pushed the pain out of his mind, with only a small mental footnote to become aware if it again if his injuries were beginning to get too dangerous. He only stopped approaching when he was near the foot of CS-1’s bed, close enough to apply the sedative immediately if necessary.

CS-1’s already wide grin was only stretching wider, his eyes slowly drooping and a bubble like melted wax rolled down his forehead.

Very deliberately, Gaser flared his magic with as much blatant physicality as he could. Motion was just as natural to him as stillness, but overtness was something else entirely. Still, CS-1 seemed to see the motion well enough—and most importantly, CS-1 saw as Gaster slowed his breathing and relaxed his hand, letting the magic dissipate from his fingers. At so close to the source, his darker color was in sharp contrast to the electric blue, and perhaps that made the difference easier for CS-1 to distinguish. Still, it was not until he heard the gruff warning snort from Ursama—now also in the connected doorway—that CS-1 actually began to catch on. Or, perhaps he hadn’t realized he had any control over his physical body until Gaster used his magic to pull the flapping blanket aside and lifted CS-1’s left hand off the cot.

Slowly, slowly, and painfully, the electric blue magic dissipated, leaving the room untouched except for the rattled cot and the remaining static hiss of residual energy.

Relieved the worst was over without having to resort to something more dangerous, and pleased he’d unintentionally proven CS-1’s ability to learn and adapt, Gaster relaxed, though perhaps not enough to be visible to anyone else. As he did, his face remained impassive, but he clicked his fingers in an instinctive expression of relief.

A moment later, CS-1 clicked back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who know my writing can probably tell that this is me flying by the seat of my pants with no regard for preplanning or integrity
> 
> Wingdings in this fic is a combination of my imagination and expanding on The Wise Man’s Fear’s Adem’s sign language, an expression of emotion predominantly made up of subtle gesture that looks very much like twitching to outsiders, and solresol, a language based on music notes/color/idefk. 
> 
> I have learned that most of the fandom views Gaster as very polite and passive. I would like to remind people that his POV is silent to everyone but himself and us. someone who builds something like the CORE has to have exactly zero internal chill.
> 
> Shoutout to InsomniacFrenchToast for telling me about bone IVs and that they are in fact called IOs! (we can all quietly pretend I got the name right the first time, right? Right.)
> 
> The royal scientist has now been effectively designed, but I still need OCs to populate the world around Gaster (neighbors, lab techs, business owners, cameos, etc. ) Some may appear often, some not at all—sending one in does not guarantee their inclusion, but I’ll do my best to at least give them a shoutout! I make no promises about sticking to one person’s specific vision of their OCs, and I make no promises about how they’ll end up in the story (so if there’s anything you really don’t want me to do to someone, lemme know and I will avoid that)
> 
> Thank you everyone for the support!!


	3. Chapter 3

 

Gaster definitely blamed CS-1 for waking up. If CS-1 hadn’t woken up, Gaster wouldn’t have to actually do his job.

He usually avoided the Royal Scientist as often as possible, just on principal. It was a personal challenge of sorts, considering the Royal Scientist was his boss. And it was very hard to avoid one’s boss when you had to report an event to them.

There was also the additional complication of Serptrine not having hands or legs, and, being a largely aquatic serpent with a functioning pair of gills, being unable to survive in Hotland outside of a tank for very long. So Serptrine imported a tank of Waterfall water to live in, and had some interns wheel him around on a scooter, while another intern did all his filing and handiwork.

That meant Serptrine essentially had a few hundred sets of distinct, eager-to-please eyes with legs, running around the lab at all times.

Gaster just wished he’d petition for them to just install waterways inside the lab’s halls and rooms and get it all done with. He wasn’t being sarcastic. There were many extremely practical reasons to include waterways in the lab, starting with that Serptrine wasn’t exactly the only aquatic monster present in the labs, and ending with the words ‘constantly around fire hazards.’ Funds weren’t exactly lacking—it was a closed economy, and they got their money directly from the King, funds were _never_ lacking. Serptrine had every right to move around in a tank on a scooter if he wanted, despite the many logistical errors, but for fuck’s sake—

( _Monster’s souls are composed of love, kindness, and compassion, given form and held together with magic_. Words that had set Gaster down the path of becoming a scientist. Words that revisited him late at night, leaving him disquieted.)

Really, the thing that most bothered Gaster about having to report to Serptrine was the interns. All those confidential reports about top-secret projects and subjects like PERSEVERANCE’s CS-1? Were much less confidential than Gaster would’ve liked.

He had a feeling Serptrine thought that was funny. Having entry-level paid assistants running around right in the thick of things. You didn’t let inexperienced kids run around with these sorts of things, whether you had faith in them or not.

Though perhaps Serptrine did not particularly see the potential in what they developed as being dangerous. Serptrine had his priorities. Gaster had his own.

They rarely aligned.

As much as Gaster disliked being watched, it was probably a good thing that his supervisor also attended the meeting. It meant he should only have to add supplementary data and repeat, “it’s included in the written report,” at specific moments. In fact, he was considering buying a tape recorder and simply playing a recording of him saying “it’s included in the written report,” just to make things a bit more streamlined.

He wouldn’t do that. But he would entertain the notion.

The meeting room was one of the many under-used labs of the Hotland complex. There were two long, clean white tables with stools around them, cabinets of spare equipment, and three windows with shutters opened wide to invite in Hotland’s ambient glow.

Serptrine’s tank sat near one of those windows, hissing and bubbling faintly with the oxidizer, cleaner, and temperature regulator attached to the sides. Serptrine was a rather large mass of purple and green scales, and would have perhaps been more than twice Gaster’s height at a full-stretch, but curled in the small tank as he was, the only time Serptrine got to display their height was when poking their head out of the tank’s open top to give a lecture. His lab coat floated in the water behind him, unbuttoned and soggy. His aides had no lab coats of their own, but bustled about around him, setting out papers on the table and readying for the meeting.

There were three assistants this time. A trio of interns. Two were fire sprites, bouncing along Serptrine’s wheels, and a yellow cycloptic slime monster who appeared to be doing their best to stay as inconspicuous as possible. All ten legs were hunched up underneath their sticky bulk, and tendrils of slime ‘hair’ rolled down their back like a mop. A few of the tendrils were elevated, however, prepped to begin taking notes on a plastic-covered laptop the moment someone started speaking.

“Is the lab safe?” was Serptrine’s first question as he lifted his head over the top of his glass tank. His large, yellow eyes never seemed to blink. Gaster settled back next to his chosen lab table and watched, back-straight and hands clasped in front of himself tightly as a reminder to himself not to sign.

“Yes,” said Ursama, “CS-1’s been contained and has resumed sleeping as of the last two hours. He was inactive for quite some time before then.”

“I want him relocated to a containment unit until we’re certain it won’t happen again,” Serptrine said. “What exactly happened?”

At this, Ursama turned her beady eyes towards Gaster, and Gaster had to break his carefully held-stillness to gesture for her to continue taking the lead. She obliged.  
  
“We’re not sure. According to W—Gaster, CS-1 woke without warning and burned through the wires in his attached equipment before any alarms could sound. The damage is fairly extensive, but reparable. For now, we’re keeping a rotating manual watch on him.”

Serptrine nodded, and the yellow slime crab’s tentacles click-clacked distractingly on the keyboard. Ursama continued.

“Dr. Gaster used the emergency line to alert security, clear the halls, and help move CS-1 to a secure area, where I arrived several minutes later. Once there, he observed from a safe distance, and began a log which has been transcribed. That was when we noticed the… unusual behavior of CS-1’s physical form.”

“The melting,” Serptrine said. Ursama nodded, her muzzle twisting into a large frown.

“We’re not sure what caused it, yet, but Dr. Gaster speculates it was some sort of side effect of CS-1’s magic attacking his physical form. It could be a rejection of the imbued magic, it might be lack of control, it might be something else entirely.”

“But CS-1 _does_ have magic,” Serptrine leaned a bit further out of his tank than he had previously, his tongue flitting out.

“And a lot of it.” Ursama nodded.

Serptrine sank back down into his tank, dunking his head under the water for a moment before resurfacing so that just his eyes and the tip of his mouth were in the air. “And the attack was stopped by?”

“Dr. Gaster approached CS-1 after we noticed the melting and…” Ursama looked over at him once more. “I’m not entirely certain.”

Oh no.

Serptrine’s slitted eyes slid to him.

No.

“Dr. Gaster?”

Fuck.

How to explain.

(say nothing and drink to forget.)

(that was not a good plan. Scrapped.)

“I believe CS-1 has been conscious for at least part of the time we believed otherwise,” Gaster said. He shifted to hold his hands behind his back and clenched his fists tightly. No fidgeting right now. “At the very least, he’s been subconsciously active. He recognized the sound of Wingdings and appeared to react positively to it.”

“He recognized… Wingdings.” Ursama’s voice was flat with disbelief.

Serptrine accepted it much more quickly. It was terrible. “Keep it secure. Focus on keeping it calm and teaching it basic commands. Safety and containment is top priority. I don’t want this to happen again and have people injured.”

His lab aides were not-very-subtly shooting glances at each other. As well as two fire sprites and a one-eyed slime crab could shoot glances at each other, anyway. The slime monster shifted its ten legs nervously. Serptrine ignored them. Gaster watched them all out of the corner of his eye. Ursama realized she was the shining gem of the moment. She moved the conversation along.

“On the topic of CS-1’s magic—” she began.

Gaster avoided speaking for the rest of the meeting, and held his hands still behind his back.

000

Barely three steps out of the meeting, and Gaster was trapped.

“So what really happened?”

He tilted his head back up to look at Ursama in an expression he hoped radiated polite curiosity. She huffed at him. Behind them, back in the unused lab, the firesprites were working on gathering up Serptrine’s items while the yellow slime monster seemed torn between starting to move Serptrine’s tank and wanting to eavesdrop on Ursama’s question.

“Don’t give me that, Dings. CS-1 just _knows_ Wingdings? Is it one of those weird skeleton things?”

Gaster shook his head. Wingdings was definitely a cricket thing. Even then, it was not innate. Those were not words he wanted to say aloud, so he just shook his head and tried to find some other words. “I don’t believe he _knows_ Wingdings. Just that he recognizes the sounds as familiar.”

“But he doesn’t recognize Standard,” she said, raising an eyebrow. Gaster shrugged helplessly and tried to smile up at her.

“…Standard wasn’t quite as frequently spoken around him?”

Ursama sighed again, but either accepted he was telling as much as he knew or decided he was being too stubborn to say anything more. “Well then, what’s your planned step two?”

She was his supervisor, so she deserved to know. She had been his supervisor on previous projects, so Gaster knew she didn’t like ‘I’m making it up as I go along,’ as an answer, even if it was true. But making up a lie on the spot didn’t usually work well when you had to follow through on it. There was a safe answer here, somewhere. “Serptrine wants him to understand commands. Though I don’t believe I am the ideal person to teach anyone or anything Standard.”

Ursama cracked a small smile. “Well, Wingdings, you’re the only one who’s managed to get a response so far, so tough luck, you’re stuck with this one.”

At his questioning glanced, she continued. “Anyone else who watched CS-1 at any point in time has been brought in and tried talking to him, plus a couple people who haven’t ever watched him before. No one got any attention until we did something like snap our fingers. Which not all of us can actually do, mind.”

She paused a moment to cheerfully demonstrate her complete inability to snap her fingers, largely owing to her large, furry paws.

Then, she softened her voice and placed one of her paws on his shoulder. Gaster stood a little straighter. “Hey. This is a really weird situation, and we all know it. This isn’t the kind of place we usually have living experiments; the plants hardly count. Don’t sweat things too much. We’re pioneering right now. No matter what happens or what goes wrong, just write it down, and consider it progress.”

Gaster gave a short, uneasy nod, and a smile. Ursama smiled back and removed her paw. “I’ll head out, then. There’s a cup of coffee in the breakroom calling my name. Remember, you can stop by whenever if you want a second opinion or need some help. Don’t overwork yourself, Wingdings.”

“Have a nice day, Ursama,” Gaster said, raising a hand as she turned to leave.

Serptrine and his three assistants wheeled down the hall not long later.

After a thought, Gaster made towards CS-1’s room.

They hadn’t dared move CS-1 from the containment level 3 since his explosive first encounter with magic, but so far, there hadn’t been any repeat performances. The IO had been changed and the blanket straightened since the incident, and Gaster had gotten a few hours’ sleep and some calories into his system. There was a new report clipped to the cot’s far end. Otherwise, things were much as they had been eight hours before. The walls were still blank. The M2MM was on the fritz and on the waiting list to be repaired. And there was a small, deformed skeleton, making no noise and acknowledging no intrusion.

CS-1’s right arm was a little more apart from his body than it had been. Someone must have moved him during their time here. He still hadn’t moved under his own power. Not at all, aside from the single, nonsense click from immediately after the attack. Nothing since. Not sound, not movement, not communication.

…how did one teach young monsters how to speak, anyway?  
  


Baby monsters either came out with sound and language fully formed, or learned it through sink-or-swim exposure, as far as he knew. There was a cut-off point at which language stopped being so easily formed, but they varied from race to race, and Gaster didn’t know the age for skeletons immediately off the top of his head. Basic lack of knowledge aside, he wasn’t even sure where to begin with factoring CS-1 technically being less than a few weeks old, at an uncertain stage in physical development, and how that would affect his cognitive and linguistic abilities. If he had testable cognitive and linguistic abilities.

After all, moldsmal was a monster who survived mostly by instinct and mimicry, but was unable to communicate in any known language. Their sentience was in question, but they were monsters all the same—but there was no guarantee CS-1 would ever gain even the communicative abilities of moldsmal, much less their mobility.

(He was a physicist, not a biologist, damnit. Did biologists even have to deal with things like this? _Why_ had Serptrine kept him on this project?)

Maybe if Gaster set his expectations low enough, anything CS-1 accomplished would impress him.

He would speak aloud to CS-1 while also interpreting with Wingdings, on the off chance CS-1 actually understood them. That way, he’d probably pick up at least one language, probably. That couldn’t go too badly wrong. It mimicked how some baby monsters learned well enough, probably. He would have to find second opinions and see if anyone had bothered to study child monster development, but for now—it was an alright starting point.

And it wasn’t like CS-1 ever had to respond. He just had to _understand_. Commands were simple. Gaster could do that. But it was hard to teach _stop,_ regardless of Standard or Wingdings, if the subject barely _went_ in the first place. And it was hard to teach actions when the subject had no concept of what action to perform, and no method to be taught new ones.

CS-1 had the capacity to learn. That was not what they’d been expecting. That he wasn’t programmable, like a robot, that he wasn’t just stagnant. This was a bit beyond that. But they needed more.

Gaster stood at the foot of the bed and fiddled with the clipboard attached there, sliding the report out a moment later, and signed as he read along.

“You bone density’s changed again. It’s even more brittle than before, likely a side effect of the melting, I’d imagine. Your mass has been reduced, making your makeup even more unstable, I’ll have to look into it to see if there’s a way to reverse that process the same way there is with fleshier monsters. If it was a side effect of your current state of magic, rather than an accidental self-inflicted injury, then we’ll eventually have to test the limits before you reach your—ah, ‘melting point,’ or find a way to buffer you from—”

He glanced up from the clipboard for just a moment to make sure CS-1 was listening. And yes, he was conscious. CS-1’s eyes were on him, and they were—

…

CS-1’s eyes were watching him, and his hands were trying to twitch.

He lacked the strength. He lacked the strength to move his hands. He hadn’t been at all exercised in his existence, but he was trying, regardless. The one sound he’d made, a single, meaningless click after the attack, had been fueled by the remnant magic, carrying the weight of his bones instinctively, but consciously trying to move his body would take a control of his magic that he hadn’t grown up with. Hadn’t learned from observation of caretakers. Hadn’t had time to discover on his own. Yet he was trying.

…

Gaster replaced the clipboard and moved away from the foot of the bed. He crouched near the headboard, where he was easily visible to CS-1. He’d seen some monsters do similar things with their children at hospitals. Couldn’t remember if he’d been on the receiving end. He now wished he’d thought to fetch a chair from the observation room, but he hadn’t expected his visit to last long. Ah well. Too late, now. He would make do.

Slowly, and more visibly than he was used to, Gaster reached into his magic. It was like turning on a faucet very slowly, and watching the water trickle out at first, before allowing it out in a steady stream. His eyes lit, and CS-1’s left hand was surrounded by a dark halo.

It wasn’t much, but it would allow him to exercise his arm. Like physical therapy in a pool, Gaster’s magic could act as a cushion, the same way CS-1’s magic would one day do. Lessen the strain of gravity. They would repeat the process on CS-1’s other arm later, and then the legs, so CS-1 would one day be able to stand and walk under his own power. It wasn’t necessarily the goal Gaster had been asked to complete—they did not need CS-1 independent, they just needed him functional—but if Serptrine wanted everything done his exact way, he should’ve sent one of his interns to look over Gaster’s shoulder. This was a logical course of action. It was good planning for the future, even if PRESEVERENCE was scrapped. _When_ PRESERVERENCE was scrapped.

For now, though. For now, Gaster enveloped CS-1’s left arm, and lifted his own in correspondence, and began to sign. With each motion, his magic shifted CS-1’s hand just slightly, using the motions of Wingdings as a gentle muscle exercise.

“I,” he said in Standard, while holding his left hand flat and vertical, his fingers close together but not touching each other, and thumb set apart. No sound. Pivoted towards his torso in a gentle diagonal. Pinky tapped ring finger. Thumb distinct. “Am. Gaster.

GSTR.

“Hello, CS-1.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This installment’s special OC guest is Xila, the yellow slime monster! They were created by Celeste-Ominous on FFnet.
> 
> On Gaster questioning Sans (and moldsmal, who I have been consistently misspelling as ‘moldsmore’, and I am sorry for that)’s sentience—irl, in our world, scientists are not actually certain if animals like cats and dogs qualify for sentience. Sentience being defined as possessing and having feelings/sensations distinguishable from perception and thought. So basically, being able to think and act on things wholly distinct from instinct and conditioning. Because animals can learn and adapt, but that’s rewriting their instincts based on past events, while sentience requires more forethought as thinking things. It’s complicated and I’m not a scientist. But basically, cat and dog’s sentience is in question. If you wanna think of it like levels, a cat is, for simplicity’s sake, ‘nonsentient’ and a human being ‘sentient,’ then a moldsmal in Undertale, from its in-game description, is something like a catgirl or dog person. (gaijinka? Nekomata? Maybe those are the words I’m looking for?) Is it a person? Is it a cat? It’s in that gray-area of ‘sentient????? Maybe???? We are not sure.’ Either way, don’t make it your pet, just in case it’s a human right’s violation. Right now, Gaster’s in the process of trying to figure out if he has a cat, a nekomata, or a person.
> 
> Just remember. Sentience shouldn’t dictate how you treat living beings
> 
> I have also learned that I should probably proofread this series more thoroughly than I do, because the sheer amount of mistakes I’ve made in just this A/N that I’ve come back to correct is painful for me. You all deserve better than this
> 
> Also, I finally gave in and made an undertale-exclusive blog on tumblr so I wouldn’t feel bad about overrunning my main blog or anything. If anyone wants to come by, say hi, or just screech ideas/commentary/etc/literally anything at me, the url is http://undertalescreeching.tumblr.com/


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaster has no concept of self care. Neither does the underground's nonexistent electrical grid.

Language was a work in progress.

CS-1 hadn’t uttered a single vocal sound yet, but he’d caught on quickly that his hands moved more easily when Gaster enveloped them in magic. Teaching CS-1 how to control his hands himself was a whole other project, and one that had left Gaster quite a few new burn holes in his coats, but was otherwise progressing smoothly.

The Hotland lab had a grand total of _one_ assistant who had experience as a physical therapist, who Ursama managed to get sent over to assist Gaster figuring out how to help CS-1 move, and to check in periodically. That made things easier and made Gaster a bit less nervous about the possible outcomes of this not-at-all-in-his-field endeavor. He’d never _avoid_ gaining new knowledge, but he did prefer gaining it when the only thing on the line was his own neck.

Still, the physical therapy exercises were good to teach CS-1 how his body was supposed to move, and it turned out most people would consider wingdings fine motor exercises. It made a decent regimen, as far as mobility went, despite the subject’s incredibly fragile frame.

Still, basic communication was a work in progress. CS-1 seemed to have caught on to a few things, certainly—he knew when he was being addressed and recognized his designation. He presumably knew what ‘Gaster’ referred to, and he had definitely picked up on pointing, ‘magic,’ ‘bad,’ ‘good,’ and ‘STOP.’

There were many more words that he may have understood, but Gaster could not state them with reliable certainty. He was usually willing to give CS-1 the benefit of the doubt on most words, since once CS-1 learned what questions were and how to ask them, he hadn’t stopped (and Gaster would stress, CS-1 now _knew_ what ‘stop,’ meant, he simply elected to ignore it), so they had gradually worked out a system. Whether the responses made any sense to CS-1 or not, Gaster had no idea, but the system pacified him.

CS-1 would point to something and gesture, ‘what is that?’ and Gaster would try his best to explain, using simple language and gesture. They could move up to more complicated things once a basis had been built.

The thing was, when CS-1 gestured “what is that?” he often gestured “what is fuck,” and it took five attempts before Gaster successfully corrected him.

It was hilarious. Hands down.

Funniest ten minutes Gaster’d experienced in a long time.

He wasn’t sure what to do with that information.

000

Another week passed.

CS-1 was moving his arms independently. He had still not spoken a word, and Gaster only spoke aloud to him half the time now, since it was tedious now that CS-1 was quickly coming to understand a variety of gestures.

Gaster kept swearing to a minimum. His vocabulary became more creative as a result. It helped when he needed to discover new ways to explain things to CS-1. A strange cycle.

That was what took up most of his days in the lab, now. Observing CS-1. Writing up his reports. Teaching gesture. Monitoring the IO and looking for any change in stats, bone density, HP, ATK, DEF, MP—anything.

Nothing. CS-1 had stabilized. Fully, truly stabilized, like a liquid settling into solid over time. The only changes to him now would have to come externally, unless something unforeseen occurred.

Gaster consulted the assistant with physical therapy experience. They suggested starting CS-1 with crutches and braces. Recommended specific sizing and setups for CS-1 specifically. A new regimen for teaching him how to walk in segments, now that he was learning more how to use his magic to hold himself together and move—

So that was what Gaster was doing now.

Another meeting with Ursama to submit a request for new equipment.

It was in her office, this time. A simple affair—desk, no windows, one chair, a small computer, and a row of filing cabinets; the whole room’s only use was for having a clear designated place for paperwork. Gaster knew the system, and was relatively fond of it. He’d written down his requests and the reasonings behind each material. He planned to simply hand her the paper, smile, and find the equipment in CL3’s observation deck in the next few shifts.

But when Ursama took his paper and read over his report, she smiled up at him and said, “Planning for the long-term already, huh?”

And Gaster was disquieted.

“I…” he had not thought through what to say, and found himself caught after the first syllable. Ursama looked at him, surprised. He quickly put together a thought. “When will CS-1’s oversight be transferred?”

“Oh,” Ursama said, blinking at him. Her dark, furry paw crinkled the paper in her hand. “I was under the impression you were going to be his handler for the project duration.”

Gaster took a deep breath and a few moments to absorb that. “That makes no sense.”

“Sorry?”

“When he was unconscious, it made enough sense. Anyone not busy could monitor him. But he is conscious and this is not at all my department. I haven’t worked on the conductors for two months.”

“Dings, you’re the only one who can effectively communicate with CS-1 right now,” she said, shifting back and forth in her chair.

Gaster tried hard to not frown, and raised both hands in front of himself, and signed as he spoke, slow and careful. “He has a grasp on spoken Standard. An overseer only needs to recognize his responses. Simple gesture is not difficult to learn.”

Ursama set the paper down on her desk and ran one large paw over her muzzle, then ground its palm into her eye. “Gaster. You do good work, but… it doesn’t look like the conductors are going to be applied anytime soon. You’re of most use to us on the CS-1 project right now.”

Gaster was a little surprised at how flat his internal ‘no’ was.

…And there went his resolution to stop cursing in wingdings. Apparently, Ursama had picked up more gesture around him than she’d realized, judging by her face.

“Look, I know you’re upset,” she placed both paws back down on the desk, palm-up, and tried to sound reasonable. It did sound reasonable. It was not reasonable. “But physics… there’s just no room. There are too many requests to fill and too much immediate need to try to meet. Physics is _interesting_ , but it’s just not going to be useful to us until we have breathing room. And that’s not going to be any time soon. It’s all hands on deck, all the time, and project PERSEVERANCE was a direct request from the king. One that looks like it’s actually panning out. If the project’s successful, it’ll be infinitely more valuable than uprooting the entire underground would be. I saw your blueprints. They’re great on a theoretical level, but not on a practical one. I really am sorry. But you’ve been making progress with CS-1. I’m going to have to ask you to continue. If the project fails or if something changes, I’ll transfer you if that’s still what you want, but for now, just stick with him.”

Then the power went out.

Huh. That hadn’t happened since they overloaded the systems trying to clone CS-1 the first time. A few weeks without an outage. Must’ve been a record.

Ursama groaned in the dark. Gaster imagined she was trying to massage away a headache. He lit his eyes, illuminating the area with a faint indigo glow.

“Physics would probably help with this,” he said.

“Stop,” she sighed.

He did.

000

He shuffled his way back to CL3 to find CS-1 very distressed.

It was his first blackout.

It wasn’t _much_ of a blackout—not in CL3. Not with the way the subject’s eye had lit up in frantic, terrified light.

Gaster sighed and walked over to the cot, much more collected than the first time he had done so. This time, CS-1’s hands were flailing and signaling _help! HELP!!_ over and over, while his magic made half-realized shapes in white.

Gaster ignored the by-now familiar burn and caught CS-1’s flailing left hand in a grip. Firm, but flexible enough the wrist wouldn’t be injured.

With one hand, he signed a firm _you are out of control_ and watched as CS-1 came back to himself. The magic faded. Gaster kept his eyes lit, and after a moment of thought, summoned a pair of blasters, who opened their mouths to let a crackle of white light shine through their teeth.

 _GSTR magic,_ he clicked.

CS-1 accepted that just fine, but brought his right hand up shakily and signed _what is—what is—_ repeatedly, before pointing at the darkened ceiling.

 _This is a blackout_ , Gaster told him. _This is what happens when there’s no light source. This is a power outage. The electricity has failed. Things will resume as usual in time. This is something that happens occasionally. This is not dangerous._

Dangerous. That was another word CS-1 seemed to have picked up.

CS-1 settled quickly after that. He managed to keep his eyes lit up without melting, and between the two of them—between two sets of glowing eyes and a pair of blasters, hovering above their heads—they finished out the day’s physical therapy and Gaster wrote out his next scheduled report.

 _Responsive to commands. Responsive to touch. No new injuries. Fine motor control increasing. No verbal communication. Comprehension seems to be improving. No malicious intent. No overt independence. Highly reactionary and prone to using magic for defense_.

A wholly positive report.

Then, in the middle of signing off on it, he felt a tug at the shoulder of his coat.

Looking over, he found CS-1 had displaced himself somewhat from his usual arrangement on the cot in order to reach, and was looking up with two bright pinpricks for eyes.

CS-1 gestured to the darkened ceiling, repeated a clumsy _blackout_ , and asked, _why?_

000

Gaster went home.

Home was what he called it, at least. A force of habit. The same way one might accidentally call a math tutor ‘mom,’ because one saw so much of them. It wasn’t true, not emotionally and not physically.

So Gaster corrected himself.

He went back to his apartment.

New Home was a crowded place. There were few, if any, individual houses left. Most had been built on top of, or at the very least, had multiple families living inside of them. It had been a long time coming. It had been a growing issue since his own childhood.

He had a third floor apartment. Two rooms and a closet. A stovetop and a sink. It was more than enough. He’d sold the bed a while ago, considering he never used it, and it was taking up valuable floorspace he could use to store notes.

That was mostly what his apartment was good for.

Notes.

He’d scowered every book collection in New Home for articles on geology, physics, engineering, ransacked the dump daily, camped out in schools until people were convinced he was a student, and called in every favor his parents had ever accumulated—all for the purpose of copying down that information and keeping a record for himself.

He’d worked through power outages and paper shortages, learned how to make his own paper when push came to shove, and a few times been reduced to producing his own pens and inks.

The electricity, he’d decided, would be the first thing to fix. Not everyone’s magic produced light. Once the electricity was fixed, he could focus on other things. Bigger things.

( _It’s not feasible. Too big too work. We’ll be wasting our time with it when we could be focusing on other things_. And Serptrine shot him down. He’d been angry at the time, but he couldn’t be truly upset, because it was true—the design was unwieldy. He could make it more compact. More _efficient._ He—)

So those were the notes he had covering his ‘living’ room. The former bedroom held onto all the notes currently in storage.

It was a mess. Half the humans’ notes contradicted themselves. Half the notes used different words for the same thing. Different spellings. He had once joked to himself that he should write an encyclopedia of all the terms humans made up for different things. It was no longer a joke, and the half-finished encyclopedia was open to _radiation (conductive)_ on the coffee table in front of his couch.

Beside it were blueprints. Beside those were four week’s worth of unwashed plastic mugs. He picked one up, carried it to the sink, and rinsed it out. He boiled water, found the most caffeinated tea he currently owned, and added half a sugarbowl.

Two vitamin tablets, popped. Tea. There was his nutrition for the day.

He set to work.

He had done so little work, lately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so distressed by so many Gaster portrayals I’m finding. I’m just. Why is there so much slander about this nerd. He’s just a nerd. Let him live his (temporary, redacted) life.
> 
> Short chapter because I’m being buried in snow and just want to get something up. I need to fill up a few weeks or two worth of in-universe space before I bring in the arc that will introduce THE GREAT PAPYRUS. Lemme know if there’s anything specific you wanna see going on between Gaster and Sans until then. They’ll be out of the lab in a bit so don’t worry about that right now. Sans will be mobile and given a real name, soon. Possibly as soon as next chapter. But yea. Lemme know what’s up.
> 
> No cameos this time. I have a few planned, at least two for next chapter, both from peeps off of AO3 I think (can’t check right now) but yes. That’s where the cameos are at. I hope you’re ready for recurring and canon characters to finally show up!! If you wanna talk on tumblr, the blog is still undertalescreeching and the askbox is now fully functional I think probably it should be 
> 
> (There’s a lot of snow outside. If I’m not careful, I’ll be… snowdin. )


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh, snap, is that blood?

Gaster woke on the couch with his head on the coffee table and dried ink on his cheekbone from where he slept on his notes.

When he got up, his spine popped like it had something important to say. He told it to shut up and dragged himself to the kitchenette sink.

He boiled water. Used most of the water for a cup of Golden Flower Tea. Used the waste water to wash off his face. Stayed in the same clothes as the day before. They weren’t dirty and neither was he—being a skeleton had perks like that. His body produced extremely little that had to be cleaned, and since the dirtiest thing he’d been doing was hanging out around other monsters, it would’ve been somewhat like cleaning clothing because they’d been in the same room as someone alive. So he didn’t, not right now.

And since he wasn’t on any of his _normal_ projects, he didn’t really have to bring in anything from home. He packed up a notebook and pen, anyway. Chugged the tea. Took a pill. Headed out. Pretended to not notice he’d sidestepped his neighbor’s attempt at a ‘good morning, friend,’ which involved a tripwire and, probably, fireworks. Walked down to the river and hailed a ferry. Gave the ferryman a gold piece to get him to Hotland. The ferrymen weren’t like The Riverperson—ferries were for pay and didn’t travel as far distance, but they accepted luggage and mostly helped people who lived farther away from work get there without having to walk the long way through the underground.

Well. As the wise monster said. Take work wherever you can get it, but never be afraid to ask to get paid.

His ferryperson got him to the Hotland bank in a short few minutes. Gaster tipped him another goldpiece. Headed into the upper lab. Bought two bags of chisps from the vending machine next to the elevators, and stored them both in his pockets. Two minutes later, he reached CL3.

CS-1 was awake and propped up in bed by two pillows. By his bedside were a pair of adjustable canes, a pair of leg braces, and an instructions booklet.

That filled their agenda for the day, then.

000

Teaching CS-1 how to use crutches was…

It was terrible.

Gaster knew it would be a work in progress, but honestly, he would rather watch moss grow than repeat the first day of practicing on crutches.

Gaster did his rudimentary checks. All limbs still in place? Yes. Everything intact? Yes. Does CS-1 still understand language? CS-1 said ‘yes.’ Magical connectivity stable? Nothing was falling off yet. IO replaced and working properly? Yes. Machines working? Fuck the M2MM. Otherwise, yes. CS-1 asked something indecipherable. Gaster stared at him for a few moments before explaining he had absolutely no idea what was just said. CS-1 balled his fists, huffed, and started dragging his thumb over the tips of his fingers over and over again. _Ssss_. The clipboard at the end of the bed said he was stable throughout all resting hours and all check-ins were uneventful.

CS-1 was steadily gaining strength and control over the magic needed to hold him up. Physical therapy went easily that morning. Can you hold your right patella to your lowest rib? Can you hold your left patella to your lowest rib? Can you raise and lower your right arm? Your left arm? Can you hold this object? Can you pinch open this clothespin? Please rotate your ankles. Please point your foot. Bend your foot. Point your foot. Please bend your knees. Point. Bend. Point. Do you want to try standing?

That one took a moment. Standing. Gaster spelled it with sounds, first, then presented it on a piece of paper, spoke it aloud, and created several gesture sequences in which the word ‘stood,’ ‘standing’ and ‘stands’ were all used in some fashion. CS-1 clicked the word back to him. Repeated it on his fingers.

His face shifted as if mouthing the words, but no sound came out.

“We are going to teach you to stand, today,” Gaster told him. With his right hand he picked up once of the leg braces and examined it while his left hand gestured.

 _CS-1, stand_ , CS-1 said, comprehension sparking in the depths of his eyesockets.

“Yes.”

Gaster held up the brace. “These will help you stand. We won’t use them at first, so you can see what that’s like. Then we will add them on if you need them.”

_Evidence suggests you will need them._

CS-1 signed his understanding with a ‘B’ and then looked positively stumped at how to proceed.

Gaster helped him sit up more fully, first, then edged him to the side of his cot. One foot on the floor. Then another. He held CS-1 by the sides as the child tried to stand. Let CS-1 feel the weight. Let him feel the struggle to hold himself up under his own strength. Then, when CS-1 began to look concerned, Gaster mumbled a warning, lit his eye, and set CS-1 back down on the bed, where he flopped on his back to rest.

(The boy was hideously lightweight. Gaster would check the records again, later to find his exact weight. The number currently escaped him, and now the question would bother him until he found an answer.)

While CS-1 lay on the bed resting, Gaster pulled the first bag of chisps from his pocket. The crinkling made CS-1 look up—without much movement, admittedly, but his eyelights locked to the location of the noise. He was becoming more observant and discerning of his surroundings. That was good—as Gaster popped open the bag. He pulled out one popato chisp and broke it in half. He ate one half in plain view of CS-1, chewing carefully, before offered the other half to the subject.

CS-1 blinked a few times and slowly pushed himself to sit up under his own power. Gaster very carefully did not freak out. CS-1 reached out, cautiously took the chisp from Gaster’s hand—he really should not have been this excited about CS-1 acting under his own power, but constant physical therapy and looking after a largely immobile form and now he was _reaching things on his own!_ —and held it carefully in a clumsy fist.

It was quite something. Watching CS-1 crush the chisp in his hand before shoving it into his mouth.

His eyelights blew wide until they nearly overtook his eyesockets.

(Gaster definitely did not laugh. But he may have had to cover his mouth with a hand. The holes in his palm complicated things, but he managed.)

CS-1 seemed quite enthralled with the discovery of salt.

His hand shot out and tried to snatch the bag of chisps from Gaster, who lifted them out of his reach.

 _Request,_ Gaster clicked.

CS-1 made a face, as close to scowling as he’d ever gotten, and shifted his hands. He tapped out _???_ and indicated the bag.

Gaster huffed, but decided that was close enough. He pulled out another chisp—a full one this time—and offered it, only for the chisp to be snatched out of his hand and devoured.

Well. CS-1’s energy was certainly recovering better than expected.

After a few more chisps and some frantic note-taking in between bites, Gaster held up _STOP_ again and, though clearly disgruntled, CS-1 stopped tapping out _???._

 _There will be more of that_ Gaster said, _first, more standing_.

CS-1 huffed, but slid his fingers into a ‘B’ again and shuffled towards the edge of the bed. Gaster stopped him again and picked up the two leg braces, saying _these will help steady your legs_.

As it was a two-handed job, Gaster had to speak verbally while he adjusted the braces, but CS-1 still seemed to understand relatively well.

Next came the crutches. They adjusted easily to fitting CS-1’s size requirement, the poles sliding and the bolts tightening without so much as a squeak until both crutches were short enough to be of use.

 _These will help hold you up_.

He slid them up CS-1’s arm and showed the little skeleton how to properly grip the handles.

It looks like too much equipment for CS-1. It was almost a little comical to look at such a tiny skeleton in the smallest scrubs they had, trying to keep balance with a pair of crutches and a brace on each leg. He seemed more support-beam than skeleton, with no idea what to do with his tools.

Gaster shook his head and lit up his magic, hoping for the best. He didn’t do much. Just held the crutches steady and gave a gentle nudge if CS-1 started leaning too far one way or other.

After a short and uneventful time on his own two feet, CS-1 tired again, and Gaster helped him back on the bed.

He set the crutches aside. Another round of chisps left the bag almost depleted. Gaster took notes. They tried again after another short rest.

CS-1 napped after the second round. Gaster digitized his notes and sent them off for perusal. Left to buy another bag of chisps, just in case. Chugged two mugs of tea in the break room while scribbling down a new idea for a coil that might increase energy output on the back of a napkin.

When he returned to CS-1’s room, the subject was awake. He was receptive to an examination, performed another warm-up of his physical therapy, and stood for almost no time at all before appearing tired and tapping out a _???_ on the handle of his crutch with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Gaster narrowed his eyes, wrote, ‘ _subject has discovered lying,’_ and wondered how much trouble this was going to cause him.

Gaster’s face wasn’t malleable enough to give a stink eye, but CS-1 seemed to get the idea his ruse hadn’t gone over well. He visibly wilted and resumed standing for three more minutes before genuine fatigue seemed to start catching up to him.

Gaster sighed. Back to the bed. The chisps cheered him up quickly and replenished his strength.

Gaster waited until CS-1 finished struggling his way past a particularly large chisp (again crushing it in his hand before trying to eat it) to grab CS-1’s attention with a snap, speaking with his hands once again.

 _When you tell me something is happening but it is not really happening, that is a lie_ , Gaster said. He repeated it a few times in a few different ways until CS-1 clicked his understanding.

 _You cannot tell me lies_ , Gaster said. CS-1’s eyelights blew wide. _It is dangerous. If I know you tell me lies, then when you need help, I may believe you are lying_. _Do you understand?_

CS-1 clicked his understanding. Gaster’s face softened. _Good._

He offered another chisp without being prompted. CS-1 snapped out of his reverie and snatched it up. Gaster let out a huff, smiling just a little bit.

A few more chisps did a lot to mend any bad feelings between them.

When the time came to try to stand once more, the fourth and final attempt for the day, Gaster paused amid picking up the crutches to look CS-1 in the eyes and say, _and you will not tell a lie this time?_

CS-1 agreed quickly and without malice. Gaster smiled and helped him into the crutches and back off the bed.

Gaster stepped back, as CS-1 left the bed, keeping his magic loosely supporting CS-1’s balance, but again largely letting him do the work himself, and alert for any sign of strain.

It all happened in a moment.

The lights went out.

Gaster _felt_ the fall more than anything. A tug on his magic, more force than he was prepared to deal with—a thud. A snap. He felt vibrations in the floor. Then, an unfamiliar scream.

He summoned his blasters. Their light was more than enough.

CS-1 lay on their side on the floor, vocalizing. His bottom left rib had broken clean away from his ribcage and a long, shallow crack ran up his cheek.

Red dust flaked from his injuries.

(Oh _fuck_ he was—!)

Gaster was shit at healing magic. The emergency call button wouldn’t work in a power outage. Of all the times. Of _all_ the times!

Gaster dropped down beside CS-1, letting his frantic blasters continue to light the room.

“Sh, sh, sh,” he said, fumbling for the broken rib piece and twisting his right hand (w e a k) to telekinetically pull one of the bags of chisps from his pocket. One of his blasters cut the bag open with a seam of light. With his right hand, Gaster took the snapped bit of rib and tried to fit it back in place without scraping more dust off. His hands were turning red. (What was that color _coming_ _from?_ )

It took all of what little healing magic he knew to stop CS-1 from dusting right then and there. Keep parts in place. Don’t let anything important fall off. Just keep things in place and try to keep the form solid. Remember to breathe.

CS-1 hardly moved as Gaster shifted him. Stunned.

With his left hand, Gaster crushed five chisps into shards and tried to feed them into CS-1’s mouth.

Chisps weren’t the best HP recovery food, but for a monster as fragile as CS-1, they might as well be emergency medical care. They were the best thing on hand.

CS-1 jerked his head away. A small whine escaped his throat. More vocalization. Good. Probably good? It was better than the shocked stillness of a moment before.

“Sh, sh,” Gaster said as CS-1 again twitched his head away from the crumbs. “Trust me. They helped before, didn’t they? You need them now. CS-1. Calm down. Calm.”

If he had his hands free, the message might’ve gotten along quicker. Something peeled away from CS-1’s cheekbone.

Gaster made him eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -How many near death experiences d’you think I can cram into Sans’ first two months of life?
> 
> -Sans will get his name in a chapter or two. Probably. I'm guessing.
> 
> — ...so. Serious question. If I started an ask blog for this AU, would anyone be interested?
> 
> It’d let people ask characters questions, prod comments, and if you’ve got an OC involved you can RP or request them? As new characters arrive (coughPAPYRUScough) you could talk to them and interact with their development, ask “wow Paps, how’re you handling Suddenly Family?” “what d’you think of Grillby?” “so who wants to tell Asgore the bad news?”, etc. Just a supplemental fun kinda blog that also lets me draw and stuff while doing this fic. 
> 
> It’d also be a place for me to just post news about the fic, since clearly I have thrown all plans out the window. This chapter didn’t get to where I wanted it to go (ie—to the two OCs I had planned to show up) but that’s still on its way, it’ll just take another little bit to get there? We’re still on course, I’m just sort of. Going. Writing a lot. It feels nice to have a lot to post.
> 
> Gimme a shout if that sounds interesting. I might just do it anyway, but it’d be really nice if I had a rough idea of how many people might also be down to interact and send in asks, etc. I think it’d be fun.
> 
> ((EDIT: I was apparently too ready, but the positive response so far has made this happen. Blog is here. Feel free to say hi! http://askmicrowavegaster.tumblr.com/ ))
> 
> ((Archiveswrittenbyink on tumblr submitted fanart for this chapter!!! It is adorable!!! please look at it here: http://undertalescreeching.tumblr.com/post/138370227734/hugs-and-chisps


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaster's probably going to kill someone.

Eating in a dire situation was not uncommon for monsters. Their food was intrinsically linked with magic and naturally contained healing and rejuvenative properties.

It was still no match for proper bedrest and medical care.

And CS-1 was deadest against resting.

“When I die,” Gaster told him, “I’m going to haunt your ass.”

CS-1 probably did not understand the majority of those words, since they weren’t ones Gaster tended to use often around him, but there was always the chance he got the gist. If he did, he ignored the gist, and tapped out another demand for chisps.

“I’ve created a monster.”

CS-1 tapped more irritably and began to hiss.

“Why.”

Gaster sighed and tossed him a chisp.

“You act like we never feed you. You know skeletons don’t _need_ to eat, right?”

The chisp was demolished in a matter of moments. Tap tap tap.

“Ah. You missed that memo.” CS-1 was getting really good at tapping out questions and demands. A crunch, and another sliver of potato was gone. Sacrificed in the name of the greater good. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“You _really_ like these chisps, don’t you.”

CS-1 paused. “Shh…sp.”

Gaster stared.

The boy had been vocalizing ever since his fall an hour or two ago—the power had since been restored and Gaster had moved the injured skeleton to the medical wing where they received a private room.—Apparently, a traumatic or near-death experience was exactly the push needed to learn how to manifest vocal cords.

Now, Gaster had to deal with the reality that CS-1’s first word might very well be, ‘chisp.’

All he’d managed thus far was disgruntled hissing.

Gaster had to admit, maybe CS-1 had mutated away from his DNA blueprint more than originally thought. Either that, or picking up vocalization wasn’t as closely related to genes as Gaster’d always hoped. CS-1 learned how to vocalize _much_ sooner than Gaster had.

“Hey, CS-1,” Gaster said, tapping on his clipboard without any real intent to form meaning. After trying to feed CS-1 the chisps while CS-1’s rib and jaw were broken, Gaster had somehow accumulated a rather impressive array of time bite marks on his fingers, forcing him to talk aloud… so perhaps he was in a poor mood from having his options taken away from him. A can of Sea Tea was taking care of the bite marks, but gesturing still hurt more than speaking was uncomfortable. “Can you say ‘abstentious’?”

“Suh,” CS-1 said. “Saa… ssnss. Siiss… sa..”

“You tried, Saass.” Gaster snorted and threw him another chisp, just as the door slid open.

“Hey there, Wingdings.” Ursama again, clipboard under her arm and grinning without showing any teeth. Gaster set the popato chisp bag down and leaned back in his chair, ignoring CS-1’s irritated growling and tapping, even as Ursama looked startled at the change. He supposed that to people who hadn’t been watching over CS-1 personally for months, it was perhaps a bit startling to realize how rapidly he changed and adapted. Gaster’d had an hour to get used to CS-1’s newfound grasp of sounds, and Gaster figured CS-1’s voice would never startle him again as long as that scream never repeated. No, the most interesting thing CS-1 was doing at the moment was shooting an absolutely withering look towards Ursama as she neared his bed. Gaster hoped the kid wasn’t territorial. “…I heard about what happened. Everything okay?  
  


He did not ask how she got such an efficient gossip chain. “It is now. He’s stabilized again. My current theory is that the DT soaks weakened his structural integrity. Possibly rotting him from the marrow out. Not sure if it will continue or be slowed with time.”

“Sounds like it’s been an intense few hours. You get any samples to send off?” She took a chair from along the wall and pulled it over to settle beside Gaster. He’d claimed the chair near CS-1’s bedside, but the hospital room had three more alongside the wall for use. The room felt a lot smaller than CL3 had, that was for certain, and it wasn’t simply the inclusion of real furniture that contributed to that feeling.  
  


“A small amount of red dust. Short-term preliminary analysis agrees it’s dust that’s absorbed an unusual amount of liquid DT. Secondary analysis pending.”

“So you think if we reduce the DT-soaks once the form’s mostly grown, or space the soaks out more, it’ll keep them more solid?”

Gaster shrugged. CS-1 tapped out an irritated garble on the bedframe. “Possibly a combination.”

Ursama nodded and scratched something down near the edge of her clipboard. Gaster hadn’t even noticed she’d pulled out a pen. “How’s magic going?”  
  


“He didn’t zap me when his rib broke,” Gaster said, glancing back over at CS-1, who was watching everything with rapt attention. “He’s more in control.”

“How’s his DEF?”

Gaster paused a moment to process that. “I’m sorry?”

He either did not successfully process that, despite taking a moment, or it was exactly what it sounded like, and he had completely missed something vital.

“His DEF?” Ursama said, leaning forward, a frown tugging at her maw. “You’ve been teaching him the basics of magical combat, right?”

“I didn’t believe he needed that,” Gaster said, not daring to break eye contact or lean back, even if Ursama was getting too close for comfort.

“Wingdings, you know what PERSEVERANCE is _for_.”

“Yes, and he’s not going to be on the battlefield,” Gaster said, trying not to huff. There was no reason to rush things if it wasn’t going to get him off the job faster; this should have expected. It’s not like it was damaging the program. He knew what CS-1’s capability cap should be—either equal to his own potential, or lesser due to imperfections in the cloning and inundation process. “He’s just the prototype. Are we not supposed to be trying various options?”

“He’s the prototype, we need to start learning how to shape him into what he’s supposed to be prototype _for_.” Ursama shifted some and glanced at the closed door of the room before saying, “Look, it doesn’t have to be much. Just. Can you start teaching him how to shape his magic, at least?”

CS-1 hissed. Gaster ignored it. The sounds and tones didn’t take any identifiable shape. “All right, fine. I’ll start soon.”

“Not now?”

“Why now?”

“He’s on bedrest. You won’t be able to teach him to walk again for a while. Why not start now?”

Gaster carefully kept a monotone and hoped it didn’t come off as sarcastic. “And I suppose you’ll want to watch?”

“If I can.” She didn’t sound insulted. She was always rather tolerant of him, but there was definitely something going on here. What, he didn’t know—not enough information for that—but he could guess. Serptrine breathing down her neck? The King asking questions about how the project was going? Just excitement at having something to actually report from one of these requests that usually left them lacking equipment and running around in circles trying to find uses for failed projects and repurposed parts?

So he swallowed the hot yellow discomfort as best as he could and asked again. “Now?”

She smiled at him. Gaster sighed and turned back to face CS-1, who wore the sourest look Gaster had ever seen on him.

…he wasn’t really sure what to do with that.

“Ursama, could you do me a favor first?”

She made a sound of surprise, but said, “Sure, what?” all the same.

“The vending machine. I need three bags of chisps and several assorted candies. Small things. Either dissolvable or brittle enough to break with a hand.”

She made a confused sound, but stood and moved towards the door, sticking her head out and calling for an intern in the hall to fetch the requested foodstuff and return immediately. Then, she shut the door again and sat back down.

Really determined to stay in the room, apparently. Gaster—really had nothing to counter that with. What was he supposed to do, tell his superior to stop observing him on the job?

“Did you understand?” Gaster asked CS-1 after a moment of deliberation. Slowly and unhappily, CS-1 signed an affirmative. “Okay. Good.”

He didn’t offer a chisp for that, but he didn’t usually offer chisps for responses, anyway, and his current bag was running dangerously low. Instead, he sat back a moment and summoned the weakest magical pulse he could, so much so that his eyes hardly lit at all.

The bullets floated, formless and soft, above him.

“Bullets,” Gaster said, nodding up towards them. Remembered the stinging in his hands when he signed an equivalent word, and watched CS-1 mimic him with uncertain hands. With every small motion, CS-1 glanced at Ursama, as if more uncomfortable with her sheer presence than the bullets hovering above his head.

Gaster turned to her again, holding the bullets in place but splitting his attention. “You know I’ll add this all to a report. You don’t need to directly observe.”

She nodded.

  
“CS-1 is uncomfortable,” he added.

“He’ll have to get used to seeing people other than you and the interns eventually,” Ursama said.

Gaster definitely had not let interns anywhere near CS-1. Not in the same room, not in the observation deck, not at all. No intern should’ve gotten anywhere near CS-1 without a good solid wall between them both. Other scientists, sure. Ursama, Serptrine, he wouldn’t doubt it. Interns?

He turned back to CS-1, gestured to the bullets, and said, “Do that?”

“Bihs…ss..” CS-1 said.

“Yes. Make bullets. Magic.”

It took a few long minutes before the intern—one of the twins whose name Gaster could never quite remember, except that they both began with ‘a’—returned with food, and yet more long minutes of stumbling verbal instructions, before CS-1 finally managed to summon a handful of oblong, pulsating blobs of magic in the air.

“Good,” Gaster said, opening the first small packet of candy. They were little quick-dissolving sugars of candy, with bright colors and no wrapping. He picked one up to show CS-1 and popped it in his mouth. Once he was sure the message was received, he set one piece of bright green candy in CS-1’s waiting palm. “Don’t crush it.”

CS-1 crushed it.

He made a strangled, upset noise when it shattered into dust rather than easily edible pieces. Gaster carefully did not snort, and patiently handed CS-1 a second piece. “Try again.”

CS-1 watched the candy suspiciously before warily popping it in his mouth.

His eyes grew very wide.

Gaster did not laugh. He managed to shake his head when CS-1 tapped out a request for more.

“Later.”

Ursama spoke up. “You speak very… clippedly to him.”

 “This is how I always talk?” Gaster spared her a glance. “…Wingdings is what he understands best. It is a more clipped language. Not _that_ unusual?”

“Sorry I keep interrupting.”

The proper response was, ‘it’s fine.’ Gaster had a hard time giving it. His sense of unease only grew, but he tried to shake it off, telling himself it was just his dislike of being observed causing him to overthink an uncomfortable situation and make it out to more than it already was.

“CS-1,” Gaster said, turning his focus back on his subject, though he couldn’t help but watch Ursama out of his peripherals. That wouldn’t do. CS-1 would see he was on edge and respond to that. Everything about this day was terrible. “Can you move your magic?”

He demonstrated, pulling the amorphous magic bullets in a few directions before guiding them into a floating blob of magic. After another moment, CS-1 managed to copy the action, learning how to use his magic the same way he’d learned how to use his limbs. His hands shook slightly, so Gaster offered him two more pieces of candy this time, which were quickly snapped up.

He showed CS-1 how to mould the large bullet-blob into a more distinct shape. A femur, long and thick and simple to form. More stylized than a true one. It did well enough. Different sizes and shapes could be experimented with later. He helped CS-1 learn how to dismiss his bone and resummon it in the same shape, without having to remake the shape from scratch each time. How to move it along an axis. How to take the single successful bone and multiply it several times, and then summon them in different locations around the room.

It was a lot. Gaster could say surely that he was not expecting CS-1 to catch on as quickly as he had, and—

Well. He hadn’t really expected the subject to be as…. Not tired as he was after doing all that for the first time. It wouldn’t have been a lot for an adult monster, not nearly, but for a childlike monster who had never done anything of the sort before, his stamina was impressive, even with the food helping along the way.

He’d emptied out the first box of candy and almost worked his way through the second bag of chisps before Gaster decided enough was enough, and no matter how well CS-1 seemed to be handling it, too much magic in one go might still upset his fragile equilibrium.

“You’re not teaching him about your blasters?”

Gaster flinched at Ursama’s voice. She’d been quiet for the majority of the lesson after the rough start, and he’d almost gotten comfortable enough to ignore her.

“They, ah,” Gaster said, the shock momentarily throwing him of words. “They are too complicated.”

“How so?” She leaned in politely with her hands on her knees and asked the question in such an innocent manner that Gaster was almost certain there was more to it. (He needed to stop that thought process, now.)

“…I designed them,” he said at length. “It took many weeks, and even longer to correctly form them, even with knowing the design so fully. Especially someone as fragile as CS-1 may. Easy harm themselves or others by overextending or not being delicate enough.”

“He would be able to use them, though, with time and practice?” Ursama said, smiling.

Gaster shifted and held her gaze. “Hypothetically.”

He didn’t quite relax again until she left.

000

By the end of his shift, Gaster had managed to largely put his unease out of his mind. The rest of the time had been uneventful, and largely consisted of teasing CS-1 about his prowess with ‘s’s.

But his shift did end. Due to lacking a sun and any other means of telling days and nights apart, the underground had adopted the words to mean when one was awake and when one was not supposed to be awake, with the original meanings fading out of use the longer they spent beneath the mountain. And it was encroaching on Gaster’s ‘night,’ very quickly, as dictated by a royal decree that maintained all scientists had to have a select number of mandatory resting hours set aside so they would get the fuck out of the lab once in a while and not be sleep deprived while operating important equipment.

Gaster tended to use his rest hours to work on personal projects and finishing papers. They were his favorite part of the day.

So when the time drew near, he stood up just as he had many times before, and told CS-1 he was off for the night so CS-1 would not be confused by a long absence.

He did not expect a tug on the edge of his lab coat.

Turning and staring down, he found CS-1’s small hand gripping the fabric tight. CS-1 looked just as surprised as he did, eyes darting back and forth before a decision appeared to be reached.

CS-1’s expression steeled as he lifted his second hand gestured, _STOP_.

Gaster was honestly too startled to disobey. “Um?”

At that point, CS-1 looked just as lost and uncertain as Gaster felt. It really wasn’t helping either of them, but CS-1 was still clearly the braver of the two, because after another moment of hesitance, he said, _GSTR not night. Help. Remain._

And wasn’t that just a bundle of words Gaster was not at all prepared to deal with.

000

He wasn’t entirely sure how to tell CS-1 ‘no,’ so he didn’t.

That was a frightening and terrible admission to make to himself. That he couldn’t just look at his subject and tell him ‘no,’ and explain why CS-1 had to be comfortable spending long periods of time without Gaster or anyone else around, and why he shouldn’t be lonely or sad or scared or—

…Gaster remembered, in shadows and colors, being a kid left for long stretches in a lonely house, and he could not tell CS-1 ‘no.’

He could tell CS-1 that he was still going on a short break, though. Because just as much as Gaster could not leave him for the night when CS-1 looked so pathetically scared, Gaster also could not stand the idea of losing a whole night’s worth of work.

So he would improvise. If this could be called improvisation. He wasn’t actually supposed to be in the lab at all during mandatory rest hours, and he especially wasn’t supposed to be _working_ in the lab during rest hours, regardless of whether the work was connected to the lab or not, but, well, not his problem. Just one night wouldn’t hurt. He might get a lecture from someone concerned about safety, but that would be the worst of things. Usually he followed the rules because being lectured was more trouble than it was worth, and he could organize his notes well enough back in his apartment, but— He could spend the next day’s ferry fee to get the necessary papers to the lab, and may actually gain some additional working time due to cutting out the travel time. Worth it.

Next to the vending machines near the elevator was a small alcove. Inside it was a cellphone with a rubber cord connecting it to the wall. It was an older model and well used, placed so that the inhabitants of the lab without cellphones could still make calls. While any monster worth their salt could have severed the rubber cord, or for those more astute, simply removed the battery cover where the cord was attached and walked away with the rest of the phone, the cellphone remained in the alcove out of goodwill and the understanding that anyone who dared mess with that phone ran the risk of upsetting more than half the laboratory staff.

Gaster didn’t use the phone often—in fact, he couldn’t quite recall the last time he’d used it, though he knew he had at some point—but to the phone he went. Propped up in the alcove beside the phone was a small piece of paper with various numbers scribbled on by many a monster since the phone’s installation years before. The suggested numbers ranged from takeout and delivery recommendations, to specialty consultants, to emergency babysitters. One of the numbers recommended a delivery service that was not for food, but for objects; he recognized the name as one several of the staff mentioned in the break room as particularly speedy. He dialed that number, steeled himself, and waited.

“Hello, this is Ava! Can I help you?” the voice on the other end of the line chirped.

“Ah,” Gaster said, and searched for words. “This is the delivery service?”

“Sure is,” said Ava.

“I need a… not emergency, but as soon as possible, I need something from my apartment brought to the Hotland laboratory.”

“Just say the words, and I’m on it.”

He really wished he heard that sort of assurance in the labs more often. He was being a hypocrite and he knew it.

Trying hard to keep his voice as clear as possible, Gaster told her exactly where to go to find his apartment. The door wasn’t locked—it didn’t even have a lock, and neither did most of his neighbor’s houses—and with only a two rooms with one table between them, it was fairly simple to explain where to go in the house. After that, it was just a matter of stressing _very seriously_ that he needed everything on the table and looseleaf pages one through forty-seven, which _should’ve_ already been together, but please make sure to check the surrounding area just in case, to which Ava replied: “If I’m not certain, can I just bring all the papers in the area?”

And Gaster was really not sure how to explain simply how many papers were in the area, so he just said, “If you can carry that many.”

The conversation was short, and Ava estimate after about thirty to forty-five minutes, she would have his papers and be at the upper entrance of the Hotland lab for delivery and payment. Gaster thanked her, waited for her to hang up the phone first, and then set the strapped cellphone back in its alcove with all the care of a porcelain cup.

Outside of the lab—outside of timers, and steeping, and stopwatches—time was a bit of an amorphous thing. The rest hours were strict on their minimum times, but Gaster wasn’t sure he’d ever heard of an employee being penalized for being late to the lab so long as they showed up before anyone else started desperately needing them. Even Gaster didn’t really bother timing how long he steeped his tea each day, so much as felt it’d been about long enough and tossed the teabag out. So if it took Ava an hour to reach the Hotland lab, he wouldn’t be overly surprised.

For now, he had at least thirty minutes to kill.

000

The delivery arrived, to his shock, thirty-seven minutes to the minute he placed the call. The carrier was a bird-like monster, all orange and brown with two large, flared golden wings, and a bell around her neck.

Not quite as confident in person, the carrier—Ava—only moved forward after catching sight of him in the entryway of the lab’s upmost doors. As she approached, she pulled a notebook crammed full of looseleaf paper out of a side satchel.

“Are these what…?”  she asked, and Gaster stepped forward to take the mass from her. He flicked through the papers briefly, verifying that they were indeed the pages he wanted to revise, and even a few spare papers that he didn’t, but more paper was hardly a bad thing. At his nod, Ava relaxed. Her wings ruffled, releasing a cloud of bright Hotland dust. “Okay, good. I didn’t really manage to look through… _everything_ , so.”

“That is fine,” Gaster said, tucking the notebook and its loose pages safely under his arm. “Thank you for these. How much for your service?”

Ava stuttered out an amount a bit higher than Gaster was expecting, but her speed deserved reward, regardless. He paid in full and added a slight tip, since good favor was something he could garner in people who wouldn’t have to see him often.

CS-1 was still very much awake and alert when Gaster returned, sitting upright in bed. He startled when the door opened.

Gaster did his best to not over-think it when the wide-eyed startled expression morphed into surprise and relief.

He took his seat next to CS-1’s bed and settled in as he had done so many times before—just. He’d never really done it so late in a shift, and never after such a day as this one. “I’ll stay the night. Now go to sleep.”

It took a little while, but slowly, CS-1 curled back under the sheet on his bed and tucked his knees up towards his ribs. He lay on his side, watching Gaster, and held still for several long minutes before finally closing his eyes.

Gaster let out a deep breath, propped one leg up on the other, and held his notebook on his lap that way. His clipboard was stowed nearby, and he could use that if he needed a more sturdy-backed object to write on, but for now—proofreading came first. He’d make a note of what he had already gotten to, correct any mistakes he found, and carry on from there.

 _Physics of a Soul_ was scrawled at the top of the first page in his messy handwriting. _The Physical Sources of Magic, Compassion, and Evil._

000

Two hours. Three. Far fewer than Gaster usually worked during his rest hours.

He jolted awake in his chair at the sound of a door opening, just in time to spy the little yellow slime monster come scuttling in.

They saw him a moment later and froze in their tracks.

When they finally moved again, it was to form long tendrils of slimey hair to cover up their face, as if they were shy. The change didn’t matter much. Gaster had already recognized them from the moment he was awake enough to look. They’d taken notes for Serptrine at the progress report meeting—how long ago, now?

“Oh,” they said, in a completely monotone whisper of a voice.

“Hello?” Gaster said. The slime monster flinched. Gaster refrained from frowning, keeping his expression neutral-to-pleasant, despite his voice creaking from overuse and trying to keep quiet enough to not wake CS-1. Between the monster’s quiet monotone and his cracked vocals, they would make a lovely conversation. “Can I help you?”

“I…” the monster said. “I was told to get something from here.”

“Ah. You must have the wrong room,” Gaster said, sounding more certain than he felt, which was—not a good sign. He set that thought aside for the moment. The long day and drowsiness must’ve been getting to him. “There’s nothing really in here.”

The slime monster nodded, “Right,” and turned to the door again. Then, with one yellow tentacle on the doorknob, they looked over their shoulder (was it a shoulder?) and asked, “Are you heading out soon?”

Gaster did not push away his unease this time. It sat at the base of his spine like cold, congealing oil.

“In a while,” he said, clipped.

“Okay… Sorry to bother you.” They slunk away, whispering something under their breath. The door clicked shut behind them.

Gaster did not go back to sleep. He sat bolt upright in his chair for what felt like a very, very long time. It took effort to lift himself to his feet, though he found he wasn’t the least bit tired anymore. His papers had scattered around his chair when he fell asleep—not an unusual state of things—and he spent a few bare moments picking them up and putting them back in a vague sense of order before stowing them beneath CS-1’s bed and checking on his charge.

CS-1 was still asleep, peaceful and deep. He’d remained curled up, and the bones of his thumb were pressed against his mouth as though he’d been trying to suck. Good thing he hadn’t. He might’ve bitten his thumb off in his sleep with how sharp his teeth were. Gaster’s hands had fully healed since his nap, but he was still planning to treat them carefully for a while.

Nothing seemed amiss with CS-1. The papers were all in order. His chart displayed the same data it had before, and the rest of the room seemed intact.

Still, Gaster did not relax.

He waited thirty minutes and found no one else came. The slime monster did not return. Thirty minutes, there and gone, and Gaster was again restless in his seat, feeling like a trapped animal, waiting—though he wasn’t sure why he felt so trapped when he himself was not in danger.

He took a metaphorical breath and stood, stretching out the stiffness in his joints and settling his nerves before coming to a decision.

He acted systematically.

He left the room. Left the medical bay. Didn’t go far. Spent one minute in the halls, looking back and forth, and found the corridor empty. He walked a bit further out, until the door was just out of sight. Another minute loitering, and he turned back, finding nothing different and no one approaching. He went further out yet again, all the way to the vending machines, and spent five minutes next to them choosing a brand of tea before heading back to CS-1’s new room. His subject still sleeping and nothing out of place.

Gaster continued that search pattern for upwards of a half hour, varying his distance and time away, and finding CS-1 safe and the room undisturbed each time.

It was at the end of the hour that he decided to take an even larger risk.

It was the right choice, he felt. Even he couldn’t keep this up forever, and another plan (a very _stupid plan_ , his brain helpfully informed him, and yes, thank you, he was no stranger to his own stupidity) was already forming, so he might as well go lay groundwork and try to investigate its feasibility. It wouldn’t be a permanent solution, but—it might buy time for him to figure out what exactly was going on here that no one was telling him about, or if it was just his imagination.

That in mind, he entered the elevator and pressed for an even lower level in the labs.

The Greenhouses.

In the underground, where there was no sunlight, growing and studying plants was a bit tricky. The botany department took that challenge and laughed at its face.

As a result, the Greenhouses were in one of the lowest levels of the lab, heavily insulated and climate controlled. There were a few emergency generators in the entirety of the lab for blackouts—though first priority always went to the capital’s life support functions and pumping running water, the greenhouses also laid claim to a generator, using it to keep the air in a specific temperature range and keep the sunlamps lit.

It was a very different area from the rest of the laboratory.

Temperate. Humid. It smelled of muddy water and—and a rarer scent. Flowers.

While Gaster’s work mainly existed in carefully blank labs and metal-wire-notebook covered benches, the Greenhouses were… something a little bit closer to wild. The same hallway leading to the elevator also lead to three distinct rooms, all varying according to level of dangerousness of the plants inside, with Greenhouse Three being the most dangerous and Greenhouse One being downright benevolent. Each was filled with pots of plants, frilled leaves, colorful stems, and varying types of flowers and fruits. Buckets filled with holes hung from the ceiling with vines creeping out of them and curling around their suspension. Piping and sprinkler systems twisted around the ceiling and floor, which was sloped for drainage—it was a whole other world beneath underneath rest of the lab.

The elevator opened up just outside Greenhouse One, and Gaster steeled himself a little bit more before knocking. Never enter someone else’s workspace unannounced and uninvited. That was simple enough.

He counted himself lucky when he spotted his goal the moment he was inside, rather than having to go to one of the more dangerous Greenhouses.

The fishwoman who opened the door was named Fig, and bundled on her back, the subject of gossip on three whole floors of the lab, was Jam.

“Hello,” Gaster said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as painful as Fig’s wince implied. “I’m sorry to intrude. Do you have some spare time? I have a few odd questions, but I wouldn’t want to distract you from anything.”

“Oh, uh, nope,” Fig said, giving a bit of a smile and stepping aside to invite him in. “Just gimme a second, okay? There’s a couple chairs over there if you wanna sit.”

Gaster murmured a thanks and headed to where she indicated—a small alcove apart from the plants where a white examination table was set up, not any different from the ones on the upper levels, bar the sheer number of gardening tools on it. There were two chairs only, and Gaster wondered briefly how large the Botany department even was. He couldn’t remember meeting very many people from it.

From behind a large orange clay pot with the beginnings of a tree peering out of it, Gaster heard Fig call out, “Mossy! We’re gonna be over here a bit, you call me if you need anything, alright?”

There was a faint reply of, “Okay..”

And another, “ _I_ _mean it_ , call me for anything, all right?”

Another hesitant confirmation, and Gaster could’ve sworn he saw a cat shuffling through the greenery. The fishwoman returned, rolling her eyes with a fond tilt to her lips and a glass of water in her hands.

“Here. Sounds like you could use it,” she said, handing him the cup.

“Ah,” he took it, cradling it both hands, and wondering if the weight might help him not talk with his hands too much during this. “Thank you.”

She didn’t respond beyond a grunt, too busy unwinding the carrier she had strapped to her back. It was the first good look Gaster really got at the guppy—more a ball of goop and eyeballs than a fish, really. It was so young it hadn’t even begun growing its finger and leg nubs.

Fig settled into the only other unoccupied seat and cradled her child in the crook of an elbow. With her other hand, she unhooked a spray bottle from her belt loop and spritzed herself and the child.

“There we go,” the now slightly damp fishwoman said, looking a bit fresher than before. “So, you had questions about something?”

“Yes,” Gaster said, fidgeting around the cup of water. “And thank you for taking the time for this. I know it will sound a bit silly, but it’s really a very pressing topic for me right now, and I wasn’t sure who else I might be able to ask—”

She pursed her lips, and Gaster knew she was probably wracking her brains for any prior interaction between them that might warrant any sort of reaching-out during a time of need. But still. Sometimes the only expert one could consult was a highly dedicated single parent.

“I’m may be taking care of a young monster for a while,” he said, and didn’t stop when her eyes widened. “And I’m in dire need of advice.”

000

It was an hour later when Gaster left the Greenhouses. He had been offered three different cups of tea when Fig took offense to his lack of drinking water, listened to a fair number of baby stories, and been released when the cat-monster, Mossy, appeared to notify Fig that something had gone and done something that wasn’t apparently supposed to happen and needed four hands to fix. There had been more of an explanation than that, but Gaster knew entirely too little about plants to retain anything except that something was behaving oddly, and it had to do with way a fan was rigged. He left with a moderately better knowledge of monster children, a slight idea of what to do about CS-1’s clinging behavior, and that was the best he could’ve hoped for.

It was an hour since he’d checked on CS-1’s room, two since the yellow slime monster first stumbled into the medical bay.

Gaster wasn’t sure what he expected to find—but it wasn’t nothing.

The bed was empty. CS-1, gone.

Haha.

Gaster was going to kill someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Way more OCs than I expected in this one!! GUEST STARRING THIS EPISODE: Fig and Jam, the mother-child duo from the impeccable InsomniacFrenchToast of AO3! Xila, the moving, grooving, gooey machine from Celeste-Ominous on FFnet! Ava, the high-flying messenger monster from AO3’s very own StarBerries (who I completely failed to reply to and now it’s too late and it’d be awkward!) and a background Mossy the cat who loves plants so much she’s named after one, by AO3’s miraculous Moss_Flowers! Give everyone a big round of applause, because humans and gentlemonsters, these guys have moved us to Plotville!!
> 
> Reiterating from above, this fic now has an askblog! It’s a glorious mess and I cannot thank those of you who’ve already participated enough! We are stationed at askmicrowavegaster.tumblr.com and we are open for business
> 
> Edit: Archiveswrittenbyink submitted another fanart for this chapter!! Please check it out!:  
> http://undertalescreeching.tumblr.com/post/138962509694


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaster walks through doors and gets covered in dust.

It would have been easy to summon his blasters, destroy the lab, and damn them all to dust with malicious intent.

No.

It would’ve been easy to tear through the lab, ripping doors off their handles and interrogating entire rooms until he found the one he was looking for.

No.

It would’ve been easy to track down the nightshift interns and ask where the yellow slime monster had been last; he could pull rank, threaten, silence—

No.

Scrapped.

Gaster took a deep, shuddering breath that rattled all through his bones, and ducked into a maintenance closet before he hurt anyone.

This was stupid. This was stupid. This was stupid—okay, it was stupid, but it was clearly very real, and he should try to work through it instead of pushing it aside. Okay. Prioritization.

He needed to find where CS-1 went, but more than that, he needed to know he could still go through with his plan once CS-1 was located. That meant a lot of things were off limits, including even a nonviolent ransacking of the lab. And he shouldn’t do that anyway, because the lab was important, and he might be messing with something valuable, or ruin someone’s precious experiments. So. So none of that. He was a better monster than to take someone else’s happiness out of that sort of recklessness.

He pressed his skull against the back wall of the maintenance closet and tried to breathe. He just smelled unused cleaning chemicals and a few years’ worth of dustbunnies. His shoulder bumped into a broom handle. His knee knocked a mop bucket. Nothing fell on him just yet. He was a little grateful.

No one really used the maintenance closets. Not even the janitor, who hardly even seemed to leave the building, ever really used the closets. They were a mess as a result, but Gaster would have all the time he needed to—to do whatever it was he would do, without risking privacy.

So it was okay if he had to sit down and put his head on his knees a moment to steady himself. To think.

What would he do in a similar situation if any other subject was stolen?

He would wait. He would confront the thief. Demand explanations. What made this situation different? CS-1’s consciousness. His awareness of pain and fear—two things that shouldn’t be intentionally invoked in anyone. Why was he so certain CS-1 would be in pain or in fear?

Monsters were made out of love, hope, and compassion. That was why he’d become interested in science, why he’d gone into physics. And earlier that night, CS-1 had grabbed the edge of his labcoat and asked him to stay. Said, ‘ _help_.’ Oh, fuck, he was an idiot.

Gaster grasped the sudden surge of loathing by the throat and shoved it aside again. There was no time for that.

…Or was there?

He took another few breaths, straightened out his spine, and dug around in his pockets, just to see if there was something in them he could fidget with while he thought.

CS-1 had known something was going to happen in the night, or at least strongly suspected it. That implied prior awareness. This had happened before. That meant, wherever CS-1 had been taken, he’d _come back_ from it before, without any sign he’d been stolen away.

So imagining CS-1 being vivisected was not very realistic and he truly needed to get that mental image out of his head.

Gaster had to assume CS-1 had only been taken once the thief believed he’d left the building for the night. The elevator that went down to the Greenhouse level was the same that went to the entry level, so it was not an unsound assumption to make, if he also assumed any observers had only paid attention to the floor levels’ indication changing, and not in which direction the indication was going. Or perhaps they hadn’t noticed him getting on the elevator at all, and had only realized he wasn’t anywhere on his usual floors and made the logical assumption. Either way, they had waited until he was gone. That meant they probably didn’t want him to know, ( _why?_ ) and if he revealed his awareness… well, that would change the whole ballgame. And as little as Gaster already knew, he still knew more now than he would if he let them control any changes stemming from his discovery.

Would they try to keep him and CS-1 separate? Would they try to explain? Would it terminate the experiment? Gaster would honestly sleep better at night if PERSEVERANCE were canceled, but he’d assumed that day would come far enough in the future that CS-1 would at least be able to talk enough to defend himself in his own words—

…and Gaster was running in circles. Whatever would happen to CS-1 if PERSEVERANCE were canceled before he could speak, Gaster would simply deal with if it came to that. Right now, he had to figure out what to do with the rest of this ridiculous night.

First, he had to get to the records room without letting anyone know he was still in the lab.

000

The records room was exactly what its name implied. The written details of each experiment carried out in the lab were, in theory, kept in neatly organized folders and stored there for future reference and aiding the spread of accurate information.

Of course, that was an idealized scenario. Gaster personally did his best to fill out his reports in full, but at least a good half of that was for his own benefit, and if he didn’t find value in his own work he probably wouldn’t have turned at least half of his reports in—or at least, he would’ve done a very poor job of writing them in the first place.

Most of the lab leaned closer towards that second option. The records room did indeed have quite a few thick folders of very excited scrawl, explaining the fine details of a project the observer was particularly enthralled with, but many of the records were—lackluster. They stacked up on top of filing cabinets and scattered on the floor: dated, numbered, and stamped by section, with the project supervisor and leading scientist’s name along the top, but otherwise indistinguishable among the masses of paper and computer chips.

If anything should’ve been an intern job, it was organizing this mess. He would’ve done it himself—was certain one day he would simply snap and try to put things into some semblance of order at the very least—but usually he was too busy adding to the mess to do anything. Today? He was much too busy locking the door behind him. He flared his eyes against the darkness of the room until he spotted the handful of crystals set into the walls. Three bones later, and the area was lit with a gentle blue glow that melded with his own deep indigo.

He sat down with his spine against the door and got to work.

He started by date. His magic snatched the papers closest to the door, held them up so he could see, and deposited them in one of the many rapidly growing piles, made up of all the reports of the last three days. Those from earlier, he expelled into seemingly random placements about the room, though he was careful to at least keep analogous dates relatively close to each other, in case he should return. For now, though, the last three days would have to do for a cursory analysis, since he reasoned that if CS-1 were nervous about tonight, then something similar had happened recently enough that it was at the forefront at his mind.

(The words sounded impartial in his mind, but something in his skull was screaming _and you call yourself observant_ , even though he knew logically it was very hard to look for trouble from the places that were supposed to be safe. If CS-1 had been distressed or tried to tell him, why would he even imagine the cause of upset, frustrated gestures were _his coworkers stealing him away in the middle of the night?_

It didn’t matter, because the end result was the same. He had to deal with the now and he could call himself unobservant later. Augh.)

He skimmed the files as quickly as he could. He wasn’t sure what department these records might be filed under—if they were filed at all—so he ignored the majority of the header data and looked through the first two pages of each report for a hint of  _PERSEVERANCE_ or _CS-1_.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing jumped out at him.

No sign of this being documented. No sign of it having happened before. He tore through his three piles as fast as he could and considered rechecking them, just to make sure, but—would he be wasting more time searching the records again, or would it be riskier just moving on?

If he was having doubts, it was time to move on. The records room was a longshot, but it was the only real chance there’d been at having an idea of what he was disrupting. He’d just have to hope that if whatever it was were vital to CS-1’s survival, whoever took him would have been willing to share that tidbit of information rather than going to the trouble of spiriting him away at night.

With a final burst of magic, Gaster scattered what remained of his stacks of papers, leaving the room relatively indistinguishable from when he’d come in.

All this would’ve been much easier if he could just—have some way of monitoring rooms where he wasn’t? He’d never really seen the need before, and in any other situation, the idea would’ve made him recoil, but now, he desperately wished there was some way he could simply check all the rooms of the building without alerting anyone to his observations.

Standing and taking another calming breath, he pressed close to the door, listening for any hint of sound or conversation in the hallway before stepping out and making his way to the elevators at a rapid pace. He considered doubling back to CS-1’s room to pick up his forgotten notes, but dismissed the idea. He was more likely to meet someone in the medical area, since schedules in there were erratic and nearly impossible to predict. It had been empty two and a half hours ago, but two and a half hours was plenty of time to have an accident. So to the elevators he went.

Admittedly, the lack of observation technology in the lab made it just as easy for Gaster to sneak in and out as it was for whoever took CS-1 to sneak around. So he supposed that in this instance, he would have to start using that specific fault to his advantage.

He was on the entrance floor of the lab a few minutes later, no one but the Temmie receptionist in sight. The Temmie in question was far too busy reading a college textbook to notice Gaster walking past them and out the door.

He left the relative cool of the lab and stumbled a moment into the smoldering Hotland air. He took off his labcoat and folded into a square before tucking it under his arm, leaving him in just his unassuming black sweater, and headed downhill.

There were two different ferrypeople on the Hotland river bank. Gaster headed to the leftmost one, paid with what few gold coins he had left in his pocket after hiring the messenger bird earlier that day, and was soon on his way to the Capital. Just like any other lab worker at the end of their shift.

His apartment was not on the way to his destination, but it was a necessary detour. Past winding roads and up several flights of stairs, he slipped inside to find things just slightly different from how he’d left them. The delivery bird—Ava—had definitely shuffled through papers while she was here. He wondered if she read any. How much she understood.

He threw his lab coat onto the back of his couch, lifted up one of the seating cushions, and snatched up one of the many paper envelopes of past paychecks hidden there.

Living off tea and vitamins, paying nothing but rent, and working around the clock for years meant his paychecks eventually stacked up. With no bed to hide them in, the couch had been the next best thing.

It didn’t make the couch particularly comfortable to sleep on, but if Gaster were interested in comfort, he wouldn’t live on tea and vitamins.

He left his lab coat where it fell on the floor, clutched the envelope in one hand, and was back out the door in less than a minute.

It was a bit of a walk to get to the commercial section of the Capital. Not that anywhere in the Underground was out of walking distance if you had enough time and determination, but still. It took a good few minutes of walking at a brisk pace down the edge of winding streets and odd undulations in terrain. The closer he got to downtown, the more monsters were out and about. Some rode bicycles, others like Gaster were on foot, and the rare handful flew above his head. Monsters who didn’t have a shift at work right now, or who didn’t have work at all, or otherwise had errands to run.

Just as the monsters grew more populous, the streets grew louder and the lights grew brighter. Few shops were closed, since no one’s schedules exactly lined up, and with the unreliability of electricity, most shops had a number of glowing crystals. The light didn’t carry far, but between luminescent fungus, the crystal lanterns, and the occasional colorful glow of a monster’s magic, the streets were bright and the shadows were strange.

Far, far above their heads, mostly blocked out by buildings, blue rocks glistened like what he’d been told were stars.

…it had been a long time since he’d gone anywhere but his apartment or the lab.

…There was time, too, now. It felt odd to think that, but—he was out of the lab and didn’t have to fear being seen, though the occasional bump as a monster passed him in a rush was still startling. Whatever was happening to CS-1, he would survive it, and Gaster wouldn’t be able to see him until morning, when things would have to go into motion. He would just have to hope CS-1 could still trust him after he vanished in the middle of the night and failed so completely to keep watch.

…he didn’t deserve a quite moment right now. Gaster shook himself out of his thoughts and kept moving.

There was a seamstress-and-thrift shop down in a little corner shop in one of the lower levels of the Capital, the shop half-hidden in the heart of a basin and the sign rusted with age. Behind the warped glass of the windows were a host of outfits posed on various mannequins, some with multiple arms or multiple legs, spherical bodies and limbless tubes, wing slits and tail holes. It was not particularly busy, but there were people among the racks inside. Gaster ducked in, holding his breath. A bell chimed his arrival, and he managed to give a short wave to the staffperson who greeted him before moving on.

The kid’s clothing section was a mass of color. Stripes of all patterns and repetitions, widths and lengths. Gaster headed to the two-armed subsection—the largest subsection of the store—and did a few mental jumping jacks, trying to figure out at least something close to CS-1’s measurements. He’d err on the side of ‘too large.’

Five long-sleeved shirts, striped. He habitually selected out more blues, purples, and greens than any oranges or reds. A pair of sleepwear shorts and two pairs of pants. He fumbled on shoes, deciding eventually on a pair of waterproof boots that could be tightened at the rim, and a pair of backed-slippers, as he was honestly at a loss.

He was halfway to the register before he had a sudden thought, backtracked, and also bought a large canvas bag that buttoned shut. When rolled up, all the clothing fit easily inside. Gaster paid, made sure his new purchases where securely packed in the bottom of the bag with the envelope of money, and headed out again.

A convenience store, next. On the way back towards his apartment, brightly-lit with white, crackling magic and filled-full with piles of snacks and foods with little rhyme or reason to their organization. Gaster bought a box of rice cereal, three tins of chocolate-flavored breath mints, a large bag of chisps, a metal tin of instant coffee, and a small roll of tape.

He popped open the bag of chips, forced all the air out, and taped it shut again. The bag of chisps fit much more cozily in the canvas bag after that.

Between the few hours he’d slept in CS-1’s room, the two hours wandering before discovering his disappearance, and the time in the records room, transit, and shopping, it was almost the end of his mandatory rest hours by the time Gaster made it back to his apartment. And he wasn’t done yet.

He boiled a pot of water, rim-full, and set aside three teabags and two doses of vitamins. What wasn’t set aside was shoved rudely into the half-empty vitamin bottle and stowed it in the canvas back, along with the first clean clothes he found. Two folded button-ups. Two pairs of gray slacks. Two different sweaters. Two more envelopes of past paychecks. All folded tightly into the bag, which barely buttoned by the time everything was tucked in.

It had to be unbuttoned and repacked all over again when Gaster realized he needed to get one of the striped shirts and sleepwear shorts out from under everything else. So he did. Unpacked everything and repacked it all over again, folding the newly freed green-striped shirt and black shorts into a tight, flat square and stowing them in the front pocket of his discarded labcoat.

Debacle over, Gaster changed the clothes he was wearing, made three cups of tea, chugged them, took the doses of vitamins after the first and second cup, and braced himself for a rush.

If he didn’t already look like a sleep-deprived wreck, he would in another thirty minutes.

He was probably going to kill himself like this one of these days.

So that meant no time to waste!

He paused a moment to grab his labcoat and travel coat—a long black trench coat that he’d glimpsed one in passing and waited a month before breaking down and buying it in a desperate bid to get it out of his head—shoving both under his arm and pickup up the canvas back with his other hand.

His neighbor’s light was on when he stepped out, so, leaving his dirty mugs in the sink and his papers still all over the floor, Gaster kicked the door of his apartment shut, set the two coats and the bag down in the hallway, and marched up to his neighbor’s door to knock.

“Ah??” Came from inside the apartment. Otherwise, there was no response.

“PoeYo?” Gaster called, knocking a bit louder. “PoeYo!”

It took several long seconds and a few minor crashes coming from the other side of the door before he finally heard a, “Come in!” followed by a loud, excited giggle.

_Oh fuck,_ Gaster thought, but opened the door anyway. Just a crack.

When nothing happened, he opened the door a bit wider and took two steps inside, feeling just a little more confident—

_FWAP._

Ah. There it was.

A high, hysterical laughter filled the apartment while Gaster took a few more steps away from the doorframe and twisted around, trying to see the damage. A lone chalkboard eraser lay on the floor. And a massive amount of chalk dust streaked down the back of Gaster’s sweater.

“Haha,” he said, with effort.

PoeYo laughed louder, wheezing, “You make the _best_ faces!”

“That means a lot to me,” Gaster said, trying to twist around and bat the dust off his sweater before he went back out in the streets and people started wondering if he were an axe murderer.

“You’re up early!” PoeYo bounced towards him—for that was very much the only way for PoeYo to move; he was at least partly mechanical, though Gaster wasn’t sure how rude it would be to ask for his specific biometrics. His torso was box-like and covered with an ill-fitting hoodie, he had springs for arms and a bouncing stick for a leg, and a round, ruby-cheeked, non-moving face with two beedy eyes which never blinked. Gaster suspected the face was drawn on. He never voiced his suspicions. PoeYo was harmless. Even if his voice came from his torso, and his tone never varied from its cheerful trill. “Did you need something?”

“Yes, ah, actually.” Gaster flinched a bit as one of PoeYo’s black gloved hands came up to help bat away the dust on his back. “I’m going—I’m going to be out of town for a while, I think. I was wondering if you could look after my apartment until I get back.”

PoeYo’s motionless smiling face stayed motionless, and his stagnant cheerful voice stayed cheerful, but Gaster still felt some sort of shift take place, and PoeYo’s response seemed a little more excited than all the ones before. “Yes! I would be happy to! How long will you be gone?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Gaster told him, slowly easing away from PoeYo’s helpful hands, getting what else of the dust he could manage off himself. “It may be a while. Sorry.”

“Bring me a souvenir!”

Gaster snorted. “You don’t even know where I’m going.”

“I don’t care!” Poe Yo grinned, “Bring me a souvenir!”

Gaster shook his head and rolled his eyelights. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Two more minutes of courtesies. Smalltalk. Gaster wanted to staple his mouth shut and never make a vocal sound again. Then he was back out the door, wishing PoeYo a good day and good luck finding a new job and scooping up his two coats and the canvas bag. Down the stairs, towards the ferrypeople. He wasn’t done talking today yet.

He really wanted some Sea Tea.

The ferry got him to Hotland, and if the ferryperson recognized him and realized he was carrying a bit more than usual, she said nothing. Gaster paid, stepped out, waved, and walked up the path towards the labs.

The moment the ferryperson was a fair distance from the shore and the rest of the water was clear, he turned back around and searched for a rock pile. It was Hotland, so he didn’t have to search for very long, though his particularities about what he was looking for made it take longer than if he’d just settled with the first few pebbles he’d spotted.

It was near the water—near enough that it wouldn’t be much trouble to carry them back to the bank. The ‘pile’ was really more of a handful of boulders with smaller rocks on top of them that had formed a small opening between them and one of the taller rock formations that lined the path. He shoved his bag and travel coat into the opening and stepped back a few feet to check from several different angles if his items were visible. After making sure it would take a sharp eye to spot them, he turned and headed back up the path to the laboratory.

He nodded to the Temmie at the front desk. Put on his lab coat in the elevator. The clothes in the pocket lay flat against him, not particularly noticeable to anyone who wasn’t looking. Elevator arrived on his proper floor. He wondered, briefly, if CS-1 would have been returned back to the medical room or CL3, but dismissed the thought. He would find out soon.

But not just yet.

Instead of turning right out of the elevator, he turned left, followed to the end of the hall, and a moment later stood outside Ursama’s office.

He caught a glimpse of himself in her window.

Haha. Even without the cracks in his face, he would’ve looked pretty terrible for any monster. His eyelights were flickering and dim, and the texture on his face was rougher than usual. He wondered, briefly, if a few more mornings like this one were all it would take for him to crumble to ash where he stood. Then, he knocked on the door.

“Come on in!” Ursama sounded cheerful this morning. Everyone sounded so cheerful this morning. Gaster opened the door and shuffled in with his best approximation of a smile on his face, and tried not to react when Ursama’s expression turned concerned. “Wingdings? Hey. What brings you here so early?”

“I, ah,” he said, and, ah, even if his voice sounded better to his own ears than it had in a while, Ursama apparently didn’t agree. She really worried too much. “I’m sorry to intrude. If you’re busy, it can wait.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” she said, gesturing to the chair in front of her desk. Gaster shuffled over and took a seat in it, and found slumping was a far more comfortable position than he would’ve liked. He tried to not slump _too_ much, but now that he was sitting again, his head was awfully heavy. “What’s on your mind?”

“I was thinking—about what you said. Um. A lot of times. About not working myself to death?” his approximation of a smile twitched upwards when she narrowed her eyes. “I… last night I stayed a bit too late and realized I’m… maybe in need of a vacation.”

Ursama let out a long, deep, relieved sigh. “Oh, thank goodness. I was worried you’d be in denial forever.”

Gaster tried to not be offended. He’d carefully cultivated his denial and was quite proud of it most of the time. He gave a small, nervous laugh as a peace offering.

“When were you planning to begin?” Ursama asked, smiling kindly and leaning forward over her desk.

“Ah, ah… as soon as possible, I suppose. If I wait too long, I’ll convince myself I don’t need it, I think,” he said, giving a wavering smile. Ursama nodded understandingly.

“That’s probably a good plan. You’re not looking so good. Do you wanna just call it a sick day and head out? You’ve got plenty of breaktime saved up… um… a few years’ worth, I think. I can check.

“That would be helpful, thank you,” he said. “Um. And, if it’s all right… there are a few things I’d like to work on while I’m out. Could I borrow some nonessential lab equipment and sample subjects that aren’t in use?”

Ursama gave him a flat look. “…Wingdings, you _do_ know how to take a break, right?”

He shook his head, smiling.

She heaved a deep sigh and reached into her desk, producing a small piece of paper and a pen, beginning to write. “Can’t win ‘em all, I guess. Give this note to the desk sergeant and they’ll get you set up. Aaaand, here’s the paperwork for vacation time. Just give it back to me when you’re done.”

Truly, a wonderfully lax superior.

He took the note and the paperwork.

“Thank you, Ursama.”

She smiled.

He felt a little bad about that.

000

The desk sergeant, a squat monster whose bottom have had said ‘frog’ when his top half said ‘axolotl,’ was ill equipped for him. Xe had the small things—a scale, some wraps of metal, a small box battery and rubber—but they didn’t know everything. Which was really the best thing Gaster ever hoped for.

“Sorry, I’m not sure what a CS-1 is?” Xe said, scratching behind xir fluffy red ear fins and shedding a few off-white scales in the process. Xe adjusted xir glasses. Smudged all over the lenses. Gaster wondered if they needed a cloth. “It’s not anywhere on the records.”

“It’s a defective prototype,” Gaster told xem, voice scratchy and face concerned. The desk sergeant looked at him with the same sort of mild concern that most people did. “No one’s been really using it for anything. I didn’t realize they’d stopped putting it on record at all.”

Xe flared xir ear fins when xe sighed and handed Gaster a toolbox of sprocket wrenches and breakers. A voltmeter. Xe shook xir head and signed off on the bottom of the receipt for checking out utilities, made a copy by hand, and slid it into the records book before handing Gaster his own copy. “Sure thing, guy. You can find it, it’s all yours.”

“Thanks,” Gaster said, shouldering the bag full of electrical equipment and sliding the receipt inside. “You’ve been a great help.”

000

CS-1 was exactly where Gaster had seen him last. Curled in bed in the medical lab, blankets pulled over his face. The room was still mostly empty, and Gaster’s papers were still scattered at the foot of his chair, with no sign that anyone had been in and out at all.

Relief. His shoulders slumped and a tension drained out of his neck and jaw where he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it. A curling dread. Because this was so similar to so many other mornings when he’d come in to find CS-1 dozing, or awake, or upset with no clear cause—

Yet everything was still so untouched. CS-1 hadn’t been hurt before, if he had been taken before, so this time, why would he be? Everything seemed so normal. It would be so easy to pretend the night before had been nothing but a foolish dream—

Gaster crushed that thought. He hadn’t gotten where he was by ignoring evidence or the lack of it.

He’d brought the crutches and leg braces from CL3, where they’d been left where they lay the day before, discarded on the floor after it was clear moving CS-1 would be simplest with minimal extras. Slowly, Gaster set the crutces and braces down along with the bag full of borrowed electronics, leaning them against the wall and shutting the door behind him.

Cautious and slow, he made his way over to CS-1’s bed, clicking out his designation. The lump under the covers stirred. A single bright blue eye peered out at him.

Gaster stopped.

The blue glow did not fade.

…Gaster imagined, distantly, bones bursting through the floor like spears.

Gaster lifted his left hand, slowly, and asked, _Are you hurt?_

Then, quickly thinking better of it, _I’m sorry._

He stayed where he was, not daring to approach any closer until CS-1 responded or gave some sort of indication that he was at all welcome.

CS-1 did not make his response visible, but Gaster could still hear it, despite being muffled by the sheets.

_You left._

Gaster—could have lied his way out. And perhaps that would have been the simplest thing to do. Soothed CS-1’s nerves with reassurances that he’d only stepped out a moment and found CS-1 missing when he got back, that he was forced out of the room, that he didn’t really leave—but instead, what came out was, _I’m sorry_.

And again. _I’m sorry. Didn’t realize. Are you hurt??_

Finally, finally, though it hadn’t really been very long at all, the blue glow faded. CS-1 slumped down in the bed. A small, skeletal hand slipped out from under the sheets and signed, _no._

Once again, Gaster approached the edge of CS-1’s bed. Lightly, he touched the bulge in the covers that was CS-1, aiming for the place he assumed CS-1’s shoulders were.

_I can help. This won’t happen again_ , Gaster said. _Trust me?_

CS-1 made a small whining noise, but then twisted his exposed hand into an ‘okay.’

_Thank you._

Gaster gave his shoulder a squeeze and moved away once more. CS-1 crawled out from under the blankets and sat up uneasily, watching through narrowed eyes as Gaster gathered up his papers at the foot of the chair, never minding the order, and folded them into the bag of borrowed electronics.

Gaster set the bag at the foot of CS-1’s bed and pulled the folded shirt and shorts out of his pockets. CS-1 stared at the colorful garments, but didn’t protest or move away when Gaster started untying CS-1’s smock and replacing it with the green shirt and pants. He simply lay limp, letting Gaster lift the body parts necessary to put the clothes on: One arm here for a sleeve, another for the other side, a startled cry when his vision was blocked off for a moment— The discarded smock Gaster left on the side of the bed.

The change of clothes done, he turned away and made for the crutches and leg braces left lying by the wall. _Do you remember when we tried to walk?_

Another low, unhappy whine and a confirmation.

_It won’t hurt this time_ , Gaster told him _, I’ll help more. You will not fall._

Slowly, with unpracticed hands, CS-1 asked, _Lying?_

_Not lying._

_Okay._

CS-1 frowned at him, eyelights flickering. Though he’d said he would trust Gaster and appeared to accept his apology, it was clear CS-1 was not about to forget whatever it was that had transpired last night, and that Gaster had left him to face it alone.

(There wasn’t any time to feel bad about his failings. He couldn’t make up for the past, but the future was still malleable. Keep moving.)

Slowly and carefully, just like they’d done on the day before, Gaster adjusted the leg braces and handed CS-1 the crutches, checking for injuries as he went. Looking for some sign of what had happened the night before. When he found nothing, he moved on, standing before CS-1 and lifting the bag of electronics off the floor.

_What now?_ CS-1 asked. His signing was clumsy around the crutches. It would improve.

_We walk out_. CS-1 looked at him like he was crazy. Not the kind of look Gaster liked getting from a several-month-old. _Trust me. No talking or sound. Keep your eyes down. Act like it’s nothing unusual._

Those last two bits took some talking-around before they made sense to CS-1, but it was eventually managed. And it was beyond time to go.

Instead of trying to coax CS-1 out of bed or hope he’d somehow learned how to walk overnight (for he _dearly_ hoped CS-1 hadn’t learned how to walk overnight) Gaster lit up his eyes and levitated CS-1 out of the bed, setting him down gently on the floor a moment later as if it were nothing.

CS-1 looked up with wide eye sockets, glancing back and forth between Gaster and the floor.

_You won’t fall_ , Gaster told him. CS-1 said ‘okay.’ Gaster wasn’t sure if CS-1 quite believed him, but he’d have to work with it, anyway. _Try to walk. Trust me._

Glancing back to Gaster, CS-1 made another small, distressed sound, only to be met with another insistence he try. Slowly and carefully, he tilted one foot upward and bent his knee very slightly, managing half a step.

He glanced back up at Gaster, eyelights wide.

Gaster grinned. _See? I told you. Trust me_.

Just as he had so long before helped CS-1 learn to move his arms with magic, Gaster now enveloped CS-1’s body with that same power—a thin telekinesis invisible to the naked eye, filling in where the boy’s magic would one day learn to reach. While Gaster suspended CS-1 with magic, nothing would trip up the boy’s feet. Movement would hardly be any effort at all. The braces and crutches would help, allowing him to control himself upright should anything go wrong, but that was hopefully a scenario which would not occur today.

Shouldering his bag, Gaster led CS-1 to the door, looked down at him and said, _Can you come over here?_

CS-1 shifted his other foot forward to match his first, then brought his crutches forward to gain him more distance. Very quickly, he learned to swing himself on his crutches to move at a faster pace, and looked rather elated at his discovery. In no time, he’d cleared the room and was standing beside Gaster at the door.

Gaster no longer even realized how widely he was grinning. _Good job. Remember. Stay beside me. Head down. No Sounds._

CS-1 confirmed.

Gaster nodded to him, and opened the door.

The medical area was blessedly in a lull. No one looked up as they walked through. No one made eye contact. They kept close to the wall. Gaster tried to keep the glow from his eyes as dull as possible.

Beyond the medical room lay a hallway that could be followed directly to the elevator after a few turns here and there. CS-1 lifted his head and glanced around when they entered it. Gaster wondered how much of the facility he’d ever seen. What state he’d been in when he saw them. He’d mostly been moved due to emergencies, but—well. Gaster hoped he’d still mostly been moved because of emergencies. Hoped whatever happened in the night hadn’t happened _that_ much.

Footsteps down the hall. _Quiet_ , Gaster reminded CS-1.

(CS-1 made an irritated grunt instead. Gaster wondered if that qualified as starting a rebellious stage.)

Down the hall came a pair of lizards. Twins, from the looks of it. Not doctors, but their nametags didn’t have any indication they were interns, either. A colorful patterned lanyard hung and each one’s neck. He didn’t know either of their names, only that he thought they began with an ‘A.’

Both caught sight of Gaster and CS-1. The one on the left gasped. The one on the right covered her mouth, but couldn’t hide a toothy smile. As they passed in the hall, the leftmost one whispered, “I didn’t realize! Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” Gaster mumbled in response, not about to ask what part of the process exactly they thought they were congratulating.

The twins passed on, tittering. They didn’t look back.

CS-1 lifted his head again, staring up at Gaster with his wide eyes. Gaster tried very, very hard to not say something like, ‘I told you so.’

Down the hall again. Gaster tried to match his pace to CS-1’s, even thought everything in him wanted to speed up and get them out of the laboratory as quickly as possible. But the quickest way out was the elevator. And he would just have to suck it up and make it there at whatever pace CS-1 could manage.

He’d used magic the day before to take some of the strain off CS-1, but this was different. This time, CS-1 controlled the forward momentum, but Gaster kept him light and upright, keeping a careful handle on his magic, doing his best to keep it from wavering or overwhelming the boy, and not producing light.

It was… not particularly easy. But that hadn’t stopped him before. Still, a dull throb was beginning to form behind his eyes, and maybe this would’ve been a little less strenuous if he’d gotten some more sleep beforehand. Didn’t matter. Too late now.

It was different—keeping such a specific thread of magic. Big bursts of magic like his blasters were impressive, but ultimately much simpler compared to fine-tuned magic.

Screaming was easy. Hitting a perfect note without anyone giving you the pitch? Was hard.

He’d hit the pitch. He just had to keep holding that pitch until they were beyond sight of the lab.

The elevator couldn’t come quickly enough.

They passed the vending machine, and CS-1’s eyes lit up again.

_Don’t you dare,_ Gaster told him, in not as many words. The boy looked like he was trying to figure out how to get inside.

He almost regretted not letting CS-1 stop and get a snack once the elevator came. A trio of scientists came out. None gave them a second look. One remained inside. A—another cycloptic slime monster, though one with distinct limbs, who stood upright and held a pile of books to her chest. She was a light purple with red hair and freckles. Young.

Gaster beckoned CS-1 inside the elevator and pressed the button for the first floor.

The slime turned and smiled at them. The elevator began to descend, rumbling. Gaster smiled back. CS-1 banged a crutch against the floor.

“Your son?” the slime monster said. Her voice was low and calm. Hardly above a whisper. Gaster wondered if being quiet was a prerequisite to being in the lab, or if it were just a side-effect of long nights crying into the library couch cushions. Perhaps it was a slime thing.

“Not exactly,” Gaster said. “I’m watching over him for a friend for a while. Didn’t want to leave him alone long enough to tell Ursama I’d need some time off.”

She gave an understanding nod and smiled again, blinking a bit. Or, winking? She adjusted the books she was holding to free one hand and gave a small wave to CS-1. CS-1 looked up to Gaster, eyes wide.

“Can you wave back?” Gaster asked him, demonstrating.

Hesitantly, CS-1 turned back to the goop monster and waved back. She smiled. “Nice to meet you.”

CS-1 shuffled a little closer to Gaster, reaching out with a small hand and gripping the side of Gaster’s pants’ leg.

The elevator dinged, and they were on the third floor down. The goop monster backed away and gave an apologetic wave goodbye before stepping out. No one else entered. The door slid shut and they were alone again. The elevator started rumbling again.

Gaster put a hand on CS-1’s shoulder and gave a squeeze. _You did well._

He tried to not read very much into how well CS-1 was handling the elevator ride. Wondering if he’d been on one before. If he’d never been on one before. He didn’t seem anymore nervous than he’d been in the hall. He was looking at the vending machine like he’d never seen it before. There wasn’t anything really conclusive. CS-1 may have simply been taking things in stride at this point. There was no reason to read too much into things he had no real proof for.

The elevator dinged again, and opened up to the entrance level.

“This is us,” Gaster gave CS-1 another slight nudge and tried to not wobble as he led the boy out. His headache was only growing worse, like a crack boring deeper into his skull.

The desk attendant glanced up when they passed, but seemed to not fully register what she was seeing, and looked down again a moment later.

They left.

Gaster was sorry he didn’t give CS-1 the chance to properly marvel at the world outside the lab—rocky earth, a burnt orange glow illuminating the landscape, the memorial hotel looming high in the distance—but the moment they stepped outside, Gaster let out a breath, and his magic could not hold anymore.

CS-1 did not hit the ground. Gaster mumbled a quick ‘sorry,’ before magically scooping CS-1 off the ground entirely and making a direct line for the docks. It wasn’t as if CS-1 had gotten any lighter, but _fuck_ , his headache vanished and a wave of relief poured over him with the simplicity of just _lifting_.

CS-1 made several loud yelps, but calmed a moment later when he seemed to realize he was in no danger. Gaster mumbled another apology. Signed one. He didn’t notice a response if CS-1 gave one. Downhill. They had to get downhill of the lab before he gave anything else his attention.

They reached the bank of the river not two minutes later, and the River Person and their boat floating peaceably near the shore.

Gaster let his eyes flare as bright as they pleased, his magic reaching out towards the canvas bag he’d stowed behind the rocks an hour beforehand, and pulled. Soon it floated alongside CS-1, just as calm and steady as the boy, now that he’d had time to get used to floating instead of traveling at ground level.

The River Person let them on the boat without a word, watching silently as Gaster set CS-1 down on the middle section before climbing in behind him, bracing CS-1 as the boat rocked and the two bags were situated. The River Person edged away from them slightly—something Gaster ignored. He’d never heard the River Person make a sound, and as someone who preferred to not make much noise himself, he understood that and never really questioned it when the River Person seemed to shy away. They ferried people without any questions asked or payment requested. That was all he wanted, right then.

So as the River Person edged closer and closer to the stern of their boat, Gaster looked up and waited just a few moments for the River Person to notice, ignoring CS-1 squirming towards the edge of the boat to bat at the ripples in the water.

Finally, the River Person looked in Gaster’s direction—perhaps not directly at him, but close enough he knew they were giving him their attention—and cocked their head in a questioning manner.

And Gaster told them:

“Snowdin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PoeYo belongs to the anonymous namesarelame on AO3! Gaster’s impractical prankster neighbor! Two unnamed but nevertheless there cameos are the purple goop monster Laura Script from Microwaveswithlegs (nice name!) on FFnet, and the two lizard twins, Alice and Alyssa, from an anonymous guest on FFnet!
> 
> Everyone was all hyped to see Gaster in a fight. And I fed that fire. This is my bad. But he’s a Slytherin, not a Gryffindor.
> 
> Gaster has some problem with intrusive thoughts :( he’s learned to manage them pretty well, all things considered. Which is honestly kind of shocking. Because. Uh. This is another chapter reminding you that Gaster. Isn’t. A very healthy person. Especially self-care wise. Please do not live on tea and vitamins, he is a skeleton and can get away with it, but even for a skeleton’s diet, that is like. A really unhealthy diet. Literally do not. (let me know if I need to start tagging with disordered eating?)
> 
> I would also like to disclaim that the chapter summary came after PoeYo’s prank was thought up, and not the other way around.
> 
> A quick note: I’m not sure how many OC submissions I’ll be getting this far into the fic, but in case there are any more people who plan to submit at their time of reading this, I have two requests!! 1) please do not submit anymore skeleton OCs! Two were submitted before I thought to make this announcement, and fortunately I’ve found a place for them that I’m really happy with, but any more and it’ll get messy. 2) I’d also like to ask people not submit any OCs who were alive at the time of the Humans vs Monsters war. Again, there is already a submission there and I’ll hold to my bond, but too many and I’ll be in trouble, bc my plan is to have the war be like… way far back. Trust me, these are both completely necessary for future Sadster potential. Thank you, everyone!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaster spends 8,000 words trying to get CS-1 breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might just have to put a general warning on this fic for food-talk because it got away from me in here. So. Warning: food talk, and Gaster’s…. continued uncomfortable lack of food consumption. ….honestly I’ve added a lot of new warnings, so… yeah. Um. Sorry about that.

The ink was running. The pages of his notebooks breaking apart as cold water flooded his apartment. Dark, and tugging, and swirling around his ankles, making it impossible to run without losing balance and falling face-first into that churning vortex. But his notes were being eaten.

Drowned.

An old library book, handwritten, black leather cover, cracking in the water. Floated past the couch and began to bob under. He reached out, trying to snatch it up, but it was on the other side of the room, air bubbling out of its pages as it sank. He reached. Fingers closed around air. The book was half submerged. He tried to run. His notes could be rewritten, but he couldn’t lose that one—!

He woke to CS-1’s skull an inch away from his face.

“Gah!”

And cracked his skull on the frame of the bed.

Gaster curled inwards immediately, cradling his skull and thinking _that better not have widened that crack_ while trying to remember where he was, why CS-1 was with him, and why there was a bed close enough for him to whack his head on.

Then a dry part of his mind said, _oh, right, you committed thinly-veiled fraud, hotels in Snowdin have beds in them, not everyone’s a nitwit who can sleep on couches for years without back pain, and you’re not making the fucking kid take the floor._

CS-1 made a choked sound. If the kid was laughing at him, Gaster was going to remind him the first thing CS-1 did the moment he set foot on Snowdin’s shore was go wide-eyed, take a bite out of a snow-covered tree branch, and get a long-lasting brain freeze. Because _that_ had been _hilarious_.

(Gaster had definitely hit one of his skull fractures. Augh. Augh, augh, his whole— _metaphorical-brain_ —was prickling numb. It eased slowly. Not quite slowly enough for his taste, but it _was_ easing, and that was important.)

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Gaster said, gingerly sitting upright and waving away CS-1’s concerned hands. “Ugh. Just. Give me a moment.”

Starting the day off verbal. Yay.

He used the few moments CS-1 granted him to gather himself, breathe a bit more deeply, and lean back against the edge of the hotel bed—a finely carved hardwood frame and a soft mattress with two brightly-patterned geometric quilts on top and spares in the closet. Gaster wondered, for a moment, what CS-1 was doing _out_ of bed, much less that kind of bed, which had to be infinitely more comfortable than what they had back at the lab. Not that the lab beds were uncomfortable out of cruelty, it was just—well. They functioned, and there were more important things to focus on than comfort.

Once he’d had a moment to recover from his pain-induced wakefulness, fatigue settled over Gaster once more, and blinked blearily at CS-1.

 _Did you crawl out of bed?_ , he gestured, trying to sound indifferent while also burying fuzzy visions of CS-1 crawling places out of reach or leaving areas while Gaster wasn’t able to pay attention. Then, after a moment of thought, repeated the phrase aloud.

CS-1 didn’t quite grasp the word ‘crawling’ on instinct, and so Gaster just asked him if he could come closer. He did, slowly, and very deliberately, his eyes lightening just the slightest bit with blue as he shuffled, mostly using his hands, over to Gaster.

“Wow,” he said, sighing. “Okay. I can work with this. This is good news,” and thought, _I’m going to die._

He’d… he’d have to figure out how to stop CS-1 from going too far off with crawling. Crawling was good. It would help strengthen his ability to use magic as musculature. It would give him more options for escape if he were in a bad situation. It was a sign of learning and growth. It would mean he was much less likely to injure himself now.

It also meant he’d opened up a whole new world of potential injuries.

“Did you need something?”

CS-1 gestured for both food and chisps at the same time, making a horrible abomination of a word that Gaster could only barely manage to translate. The gesture was sloppier than usual.

Gaster winced as he realized why that was.

CS-1 was tired. But he couldn’t sleep anymore—he was too hungry, and unused to hunger at that. Aside from the incentives Gaster had made out of the chisps, the lab had provided CS-1 meals at specific periods throughout a working day. The food wasn’t exactly tasty, CS-1’s reaction to chisps had definitely solidified that, but it was filling enough, clearly. Gaster hadn’t ever really bothered with the lab food, already having gotten himself to the point he could scrape by on nearly nothing. CS-1 didn’t have that kind of mindset yet—not that he should ever have to—and between escape from the lab however many hours ago and how quickly Gaster had fashioned himself a sleeping spot on the floor out of one of the bed’s spare pillows and a spare quilt, he’d—they had definitely reached time for CS-1 to be fed, if not passed it entirely.

Aside from the discomfort, CS-1 needed food for energy to keep him mobile. He was young and fragile.

Gaster really needed to get some real food in their room the moment he could.

Or.

The moment he felt he could stand on his own two legs without falling flat on his face, anyway. Same thing.

It still surprised him a little how off balance he was when he tried to stand.

Usually it took him… a little while to gather the motivation to get up. Once he got up, he could usually keep going pretty well. But it took a while to get to that point. A hungry CS-1 making sad, distressed faces at him was a very good motivator, but his equilibrium was still shot.

Still, Gaster pushed himself upright with one hand on the bedframe, taking a few deep breaths, and steadying himself a moment more releasing the bedframe and standing on his own two feet.

At which point, the vertigo faded enough for him to realize another thing.

 _…so, did you crawl out of bed, or did you fall?_ Gaster asked, gesturing one-handed at CS-1 while trying not to smirk. Falling was a dangerous thing for CS-1. Two days ago he’d almost died after taking a fall.

But Gaster was imagining CS-1 rolling off the bed, landing on the floor, and continuing to doze peacefully throughout the whole ordeal.

Yeah. That sounded more like the kid.

CS-1 didn’t really seem to understand all of what was said, but he sure got the gist of it, and made a face.

Gaster snorted. Still, CS-1 didn’t protest when Gaster bent down and hoisted him up with a grunt, placing him back on the bed.

 _I’ll get you more later, but we should have enough to tide you over until then_ , Gaster told him, recovering from the lifting quickly enough and making his way over to the canvas bag he’d tossed rather haphazardly against the wall by the door when they’d first come in the night before. At least he’d had the strength of mind to help CS-1 out of his leg braces and set those and the crutches very gently at the foot of the bed.

The canvas bag, though, had barely managed to stay upright. And that was mostly owing to the bag of borrowed mechanics it was leaning on. Gaster hoped nothing in that was damaged, and then ignored it, opening up the canvas bag and rooting around in it as best he could with his head still swimming.

Something about the thought of swimming—or maybe just _water_ —made him feel a bit sick inside. …He’d maybe dreamed something about that?

Then—The crinkling of a wrapper! Only something mostly filled with air could make such a hideously loud sound. Chisps.

When he pulled out the chisps, something came tumbling out with them—his vitamin tin, now half stuffed with tea.

He blinked at it a moment. Chisps in one hand, tea-and-vitamin container at his feet, hungry child at his back.

…Snowdin. They were in Snowdin.

Gaster turned around and scanned the room more thoroughly.

To his immediate right shoulder was the door to the hallway. To his back about midway down the wall was the nest he’d made out of a quilt and pillow, situated at the foot of the bed where CS-1 sat perched, waiting expectantly. Beyond that was a small coffee table with an inanimate glow crystal on it, a pair of wrought wooden chairs, and a window that looked out into the dark, snowy forest, which glowed faintly with blue.

The final wall had a brick fireplace set into it, and a trunk and two rows of shelves holding, most importantly, wood, tinder, a kettle, and some cups. Gaster hadn’t lit the fire when they’d entered, so the room was still as icy cold as anywhere in Snowdin, but combined with some water from the hallway washroom or—if he were lazy enough—opening the window and just putting snow directly in the pot, there was everything he’d need to make some tea.

His head went waterlogged again. Yeah. Tea could only improve that.

Huh. He wondered if CS-1 liked tea or not.

He pulled two teabags and a vitamin dose out of the tin. With the amount of sleep he’d gotten and the extra tea and doses he’d taken back in his apartment, he was probably eating more than usual, but—but after the day before and the fine-tuned magic it took to make CS-1 walk without producing light, he really couldn’t say he didn’t want just a little more of an energy boost than usual.

CS-1 tore into the bag of chisps the moment they were given to him, leaving Gaster free to shuffle over to the fireplace and inspect what they had more thoroughly.

Not only was there a kettle, but also a set of cutlery, bowls, and plates. Clearly, the hotel was used to guests wanting to make their own food on long stays, or at least heating something up over the fire. Maybe they were used to people on different sleeping schedules and couldn’t rely on guests being awake to join in a meal?

There was also a box of matches. Expected, but still a relief to find. Gaster wasn’t sure he could light a fire with magic in his current state. He couldn’t cook with it even on a good day.

After a few minutes of staring and listening to the soundtrack of CS-1’s crunchy feast, Gaster decided he wasn’t a barbarian, and he was going to check the washroom for a faucet or pump before trying to open the window to melt snow.

He made a quick pitstop by the canvas bag again, this time to dig out one of the man tins of mints he’d bought along with the chisps. He popped two in his mouth—chocolate and strawberry flavored—before clicking out a _be right back_ and heading to the washroom. There was a very real, very treacherous risk that the mints would completely wreck the taste of the tea for him, but he was also going to probably need the little bit of energy they provided to carry the kettle back to their room if there was working water.

So down the hallway. It was a short walk. Only three other doors in the hall besides their own, and a final wooden door at the end of the hall opposite the staircase, marked as a washroom. There was definitely running water—and water that ran _well_ , too, since this was the second floor, and he wondered if there was magic aiding that along to get the pipe all the way to Waterfall’s level—

The washroom was fairly simple. A tub, large and round. Several towels on a wooden tree hanger standing proudly next to a half-opened shuttered closet. Inside that, a smaller metal basin full of sponges and bars of soap. Beside them, a few buckets. A mirror hung up on the wall with an ornate frame around it. And a faucet, a hand-pump iron faucet with an opening as large as Gaster’s fist, standing low in the corner with another metal basin below it to catch any splash.

As with the bedroom, it was all illuminated by glow crystals, but without the aid of light from the window. A few unlit candles were scattered around as well, a pack of matches on one of the wall frames. An unlit light bulb hung from a wire on the ceiling.

Gaster considered summoning one of his blasters, but dismissed the idea. He could see well enough to get water, and while the mints had already dissolved and given him a bit of a boost, he didn’t quite trust himself yet, even to maintain a small blaster.

He kept the door to the hallway open, just to let in what little extra light that allowed, and made his way to the pump in the corner. Hung the kettle on a hook at the top of the nozzle, set there explicitly for the purpose of helping things hang. And started pumping.

It was a good well. A very good well. It took a good ten pumps before the first hint of water appeared, but after that, it came quickly, clear and cold. Three pumps and he had more than enough for tea. Enough for multiple cups, or to wash up. Either way. He unhooked the kettle and watched the pump drip out the remainder before turning and heading back up the hall the way he came.

CS-1 had chewed his way through the whole first bag of chisps by the time Gaster got back. Which was a bit concerning, but—chisps weren’t very filling, admittedly.

Redoubling his resolve to get something else for CS-1 to eat later on, Gaster set the water down, tossed CS-1 another bag of chisps, and paused just long enough to watch the carnage begin before turning back to the fireplace and staring at it.

He sighed.

He should’ve started a fire before getting the water.

Stupid.

Crouched in front of the mantle. Paper. Kindling. Twigs. Multiple small softwood logs, and three larger hardwoods. The hotel owner really had gone out of their way to make sure they had everything in the room they’d need. He set it up, most easily flammable to least. It wouldn’t take much for such a small room to heat up. He did it without thinking. He’d grown up around fire.

Matches. Three strikes before it caught flame. Two matches before the paper caught. Gaster sat back and watched everything catch—paper, twigs, kindling, softwood—waiting until there was a decent blaze before hanging the kettle over the flame.

After a few minutes of staring blankly into the fire, Gaster realized CS-1’s crunching had stopped.

He turned and looked over his shoulder, realizing CS-1 was watching the fire with the familiar intensity of someone who’d never seen something before, and was trying desperately to figure out how it worked.

…Gaster couldn’t deny a look like that.

 _Hey_ , he said, and tried to not smile too much when CS-1 jumped. _You shouldn’t touch. But want to see?_

 _Yes!!_ CS-1 said, eyes alight. _Yes._

Gaster put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up, grunting as he did so, and made his way to the bed. _Arms up_. CS-1 complied. Gaster looped his arm around CS-1’s waist and hoisted him up, carrying him off the bed and closer to the fireplace before sitting down with the kid securely in his lap, where he couldn’t go crawling too close. Gaster wasn’t sure how dangerous a slight burn would be to the kid, but he wasn’t about to risk it. With any luck, the rest and recent food would have CS-1 about as healthy as could be, and maybe even able to take a little more risk than usual. With even better luck, neither of them would have to find out.

 _Fire_ , Gaster told him, and repeated it verbally. _This is fire. It’s painful and dangerous to touch or get too close. But it’s also very useful._

CS-1 nodded along to the warnings, but still stretched a hand out, closer to the flames. Gaster huffed. CS-1 ignored him.

Gaster huffed again, and had a thought.

… _Want to see something?_

CS-1 turned a quarter of the way towards him, eyes flat, but still questioning.

Gaster tried to smile again, and remembered CS-1 was still mad at him. And probably only putting up with being carried around because he knew Gaster usually did the opposite of stealing him away in the night, haha—

…Well. Gaster—he’d offered, at least. CS-1 looked sort of curious. And the kettle was getting hot now, tea wouldn’t be much longer, so he could probably afford to just—

Trying to ignore the part of his brain that didn’t know how to stop talking, Gaster lifted the hand that wasn’t holding CS-1, ran his thumb over his fingertips, and summoned fire.

Well. As close to fire as he could get on his hands.

Still. CS-1’s eyelights grew wide and he let out a little gasp, before seeming to remember Gaster’s warning and finding himself stuck between wanting to get away and wanting to lean in closer.

Gaster smiled for real, relaxing slightly. He could do this.

 _You can touch it_ , he told CS-1. _It’s not real fire. I’m better at light without heat_.

With a suspicious sideways glance, CS-1 lifted one of his hands and touched his pointer finger to Gaster’s fire.

The flame swallowed the finger as if it weren’t even there.

Haha. It really was a pretty poor imitation.

It flickered and pulsed like fire, it held the shape of a flame, but—but it was just his magic. Made into a shape he had practiced. Just like with his bones attacks. Just like with his blasters.

His flame was purple, and airy, and if he tried hard enough, flecks of gold might swirl into its midst. Still. Fake fire was just fake fire. Light without heat.

CS-1 withdrew his hand, turning back to the fireplace, and Gaster doused his flame before he drained himself too thoroughly.

Outside, somewhere, windchimes were making faint sounds he could hardly hear through the window. One of the softwood logs cracked and spat out orange sparks that fizzled on the floor not far from where they sat. Downstairs, the padding of soft feet.

…this was nice.

Yeah.

This was nice.

The cold didn’t really bother Gaster—didn’t really bother skeletons at all, he assumed, given their lack of a conventional nervous system (he’d always sort of wondered what sensation was like to other monsters. Monsters with fur, or scales, or hairless skin. What he wouldn’t give to be someone else, just for a day—) but really, the cold was just sort of there. He knew it was cold. He could feel the temperature differences around him. He felt the thick, wet humidity of Hotland, and the dry, thin air of Snowdin, and could smell and feel the road dust of New Home as if it were a part of him, but… they didn’t _bother_ him, per se.

But this was nice. Knowing the room had once been cold, and was heating. Feeling the heat on his bones. Watching CS-1 lean into it, and then away from it, and apparently lulling himself back to sleep…

CS-1 fell asleep.

The kettle was bound to whistle, soon.

Gaster didn’t really need boiling water to make tea. He just needed it hot.

Carefully, so as to not disturb his passenger, Gaster lifted CS-1 back up and carried him back to the bed, setting his head against the pillow and pulling the sheet and quilts up to his shoulders. Then, quick as he could, Gaster went back to the fireplace and pulled the kettle off its hook.

He felt the searing heat in his hands, and ignored it. Not a big deal. He poured what he could into the cups and finally set the kettle down again, this time on the table. Stretched the pain out of his fingers with a sigh. Teabags. Steep. He had a few mintes.

He’d forgotten honey.

Maybe he could find somewhere to get honey in Snowdin…?

Snowdin was probably far too cold for honey. Still. Even chunks of crystallized honey. He could go for that.

CS-1 was still asleep, much faster than Gaster expected him to be—maybe he had only woken because of hunger?—and hadn’t’ been at all disturbed by the movement or noise around him. So Gaster steeped the tea he’d been planning to give to CS-1 and drank both cups when they were done, one after the other.

CS-1 was still asleep.

If Gaster stopped moving now, he’d probably stay stopped and then feel awful about it.

CS-1 stayed sound asleep, and there was work to do.

With a few deep breaths, Gaster set the cups aside and pulled the metal screen across the front of the fireplace so no sparks could cause trouble while he was gone.

Still no stirring from the bed.

Gaster straightened his clothes, looked himself over, made sure there weren’t any stains or wrinkles he couldn’t get out before starting to move—and when there weren’t, he headed to the door. Quiet as he could. He’d be back soon. Before CS-1 ever woke up.

He slipped back into the hall and closed the door quietly behind him.

He couldn’t stand vigil all the time. And this wasn’t exactly something he wanted to do with CS-1 around. Better that the kid was asleep.

Down the stairs.

“’Morning,” the bunny at the front desk said. She was the same as the one the night before who’d signed them in for two weeks’ stay—small eyes, a flower pattered apron, and sharp, upright ears. Today she was lounging in a chair behind the front desk, reading over what looked to be a handwritten novel. It must’ve been a local author. “Your son not up yet?”

“No, he’s still sleeping in some,” Gaster said, “the trip really tired him out.”

The desk bunny nodded sagely, thumbing the pages of her book and dogearing one of them. “Anything I can help you with this mornin’, then?”

“Yes, actually, please,” Gaster said, and fidgeted with the front of his sweater before he could catch himself. “I was wondering if I could borrow a phone?”

The bunfolk at the front desk dug around in her dress’ pockets and produced a small, older-model cellphone. Simple, but effective. Large battery. He thanked her, and she directed him to a small backroom where he could made the call in privacy. Then, she left him alone, and returned to her book.

Talking a deep breath, Gaster closed his eyes and sorted through his memory for the number he needed—he’d always had a knack for patterns, and numbers were the most common pattern of all, but assigning a face and name to those numbers was always a bit hit-or-miss. Still, there were only so many phone numbers in the underground he could miscall.

He dialed correctly on the first try.

“Hello? Who is this?”

Ursama sounded tired.

Gaster wondered how much of that was his fault.  “Gaster.”

“ _Wingdings!_ ”

A lot of that was his fault, it sounded.

“I can explain.”

Something thudded on the other end of the line. Then a long, drawn out sigh. He could imagine her leaning over her desk, propped up by one elbow and covering her eyes. “This better be good.”

“I-I’d,” He closed his eyes. “I’d like to start with pointing out I did not actually do anything not sanctioned. I went through proper channels, and told no lies. And now am calling to explain myself without prompting.”

She made a small sound of acknowledgement. It was not… he wondered if it ever got easier to break people’s trust, and kept talking. “You waited an awful long time to call.”

“…I… was taking your advice to heart and trying not to die, hha.”

That was clearly not a good way to break the tension. Something shifted in her voice. Sharp. “Did he hurt you?”

“I…” Gaster blinked. “What? No. No, I was just. You saw how I looked in your office, it took me time to recover. No. There was… I removed CS-1 for his own safety.”

The new tone dropped away from her voice, replaced with confusion. Gaster relaxed fractionally. “What do you mean by that?”

“He was upset when I left the other night and asked that I stay. I cooperated. When I left for a while later on and returned, I found his bed empty. As his handler, he should not have been taken anywhere without my awareness or permission. I suspect it has occurred several times before. Without more information, I decided removing him until further notice was the best course of action.”

“You didn’t inform anyone.”

“I didn’t know who may or may not have been involved, or how much the process would have been stalled if I brought it to attention. It seemed best to focus on the removal.”

“You didn’t know who was involved. But you’re calling me.”

“…”

He held his silence. It still probably said too much.

A few long seconds passed before she spoke again, her voice softer, despite the metallic tinge the phone lent it. “Do you have any suspects, or anything to suggest what’s going on?”

“Not really, no. I haven’t gotten the chance to ask CS-1 very much. His vocabulary’s been effective so far, but this is very different from anything else I’ve talked to him about. I’m hoping the time on ‘vacation’ will give us time to focus on his communication. But there was an intern—a yellow slime monster, multipedal, cycloptic. They came in the room shortly before CS-1 vanished and asked when I would be leaving. That’s roughly what I know.”

“Roughly?”

“All I can currently articulate. CS-1 has been… anxious, before, when I came or went for the day. But I hadn’t connected it until now. I’ll need to talk to him more to find out, and I’m too far away to do much else right now.”

“And what are you going to do if the lab sends royal guards out to repossess him?”

“I’ve told the townsfolk I’ve encountered that CS-1 is my son,” Gaster said, tone flat. “They will not react well to guards apparently attempting to separate a distraught parent and child.”

Ursama sighed again, but her tone was no longer angry. Still. He thought she was probably still covering her eyes and slumped over at her desk. She’d have to go take a walk after this conversation. She’d want to go and scream. But she was still using that nickname. That couldn’t be a bad sign. “Wingdings, you know this project…”

“It will go on,” he said, in a rush to soothe whatever he could. “I’ll continue to document things where I am, and—and this could actually help supplementary data. Showing him a new environment. Seeing how he does under stress.”

Another long sigh. “Do that, then.”

The pause between them was longer, this time. And Gaster could hear things he _should’ve_ said, things that were going unsaid—the hopes and dreams of the monster’s survival on the surface suddenly possible because a little cloned skeleton had survived for multiple months and been proven magically competent and open to influence, so if they could just see how far it could go, could see if they could create someone or something truly _expendable_ —

“Ursama,” Gaster said, his voice cracking. But no more than usual. “I… I don’t like being on this program. But I don’t sabotage projects, regardless how I feel about them. Especially something so many people suddenly could gain hope from. You know that.”

She sighed again. Shorter, this time. “I do. We do. That’s why you’re there. And I know you wouldn’t go so far away from the lab unless there was something you were really worried about.”

It took Gaster a moment, but at least he realized she was making a joke. He gave the nervous little laugh she was clearly waiting for, and she finally continued. “Okay. So, I guess… what’s your first long-distance status report?”

Gaster rolled his shoulders back and tried to crack the tension out of his neck. It was over the phone, it was a lot of talking, and he was still tired, but… he could do this. “CS-1 is unafraid of strangers and exceedingly curious. There are lots of things he was not exposed to in the lab which he is now being exposed to, and he is largely taking them in stride while investigating in more subtle ways, but is not always successful. When he was first let close to the snow, he took a bite and gave himself brain freeze. I’m curious to see if he’ll try again just to see if it gives brain freeze every time, or if he’s learned his lesson about putting unknown objects in his mouth.”

000

CS-1 was awake when Gaster returned to the room, sitting upright in bed, looking positively betrayed.

…Gaster supposed he deserved that.

Still, he approached the bed slowly, with arms outspread and fingers clicking.

 _I didn’t leave. I was just downstairs,_ did very little to remedy the situation. _Are you hungry again? Do you want to see the outside?_ didn’t quite remedy things, but—CS-1’s eyes sparked with something that wasn’t anger, and that was a start. Curiosity was a powerful thing, and after several months cooped up in the same room of the lab, CS-1 clearly ready for just about anything new and interesting.

 _There’s a shop beside the inn_ , Gaster said as he helped CS-1 into his braces and crutches. _Stay close. Look around. Indicate what you want. Clear?_

CS-1 affirmed with a quick gesture that was only a little bit hindered by his crutches. He stayed upright. He was learning quickly.

(Gaster was a little jealous.)

Not quickly enough to walk on his own just yet. But still. His balance was much better than he had been only a few days ago. Was that normal?

Gaster wished he had a control subject.

The stairs were—skipped. Gaster kept CS-1 floating about an inch or two above them at all times, and only set him down on the last few steps, once they were visible to anyone who might be in the lobby. He waved to the desk attendant and ushered CS-1 out into the icy streets.

That was. One of the things he’d wished he’d thought through a bit better before choosing to come to Snowdin. Not that he would have changed his mind—it was as far from Hotland as one could get, and that was about what he needed. But it probably would have done better for CS-1 to not have to contend with so much… everything on the ground.

Still.

The more the snow hindered CS-1? The more determined the boy seemed to walk through it on his own.

Shaky and uneven in his gate now that they were off familiar terrain, CS-1 wobbled and skidded very slightly on every icy patch he came across, to the point where Gaster had to walk beside him with one hand on CS-1’s shoulder to help keep him steady. There was only so much Gaster’s magic could do without becoming visible, after all. Maybe he’d try to help CS-1 practice somewhere a little less public. For now, on the way to the shop, they kept to the relatively-clear streets and slush, following the beacon of lit orange windows glowing out into a field of dark, dark blue snow.

Snowdin really was beautiful. Eerie. Its infrastructure was much less well maintained than Gaster was used to back in the Capital, so while blackouts there were frequent, out here, it was a nightly thing, and the whole area reflected that. There were candles in windows and glowstones set along footpaths. The colored glow crystals and fireplaces roaring in houses and shops set the snow alight with colors in town, while further into the distance, out into the dark woods, it faded all to blue.

…they reached the shop beside the inn in short order, the cold giving way to a wall of warmth, and the muffled, snowy silence broken by the ringing of a bell over the door.

“Oh my,” the shopkeeper said as they entered, the words almost lost with how quietly she said them. But they weren’t lost, and Gaster immediately ducked his head, pretending to focus solely on helping CS-1 over the lip of the doorstep while actually straining for any sign of danger.

There. There wasn’t any danger. He knew there probably wasn’t going to be. But still. He just. He kept listening anyway, glancing out of his peripheral vision, arms tensed. It didn’t make him feel better. But it was what he did.

CS-1 made it through the doorstep without any complications, eyes wide and grinning at the sight of the shop’s interior. He looked around with an eagerness that fully outpaced his ability to walk, and wobbled dangerously as he moved forward, making a beeline for one of the shelves along the wall and relying on Gaster’s magic to support him.

Gaster supposed that was a good sign. At least CS-1 trusted him to not let him fall again.

Gaster figured having no other choice was probably a good motivator to trust, though.

Still. It was a nice shop, and after nothing bad happened for a few moments, he was able to close the door behind himself and glance up to see the shopkeeper smiling indulgently at CS-1. Things were probably going to be okay.

The shopkeeper stayed at a distance, behind the register—which consisted of a note-pad to record each sale, and a wooden box covered in sequins that looked like it had been decorated by a toddler. Behind her was a fireplace, burning bright and filling the whole area with a warm orange glow, to the point where the few yellow red glowing crystals near the corners of the room were mostly useful for stabilizing the shadows rather than providing light themselves. Each wall of the one-room shop was covered with shelves of the mundane and specialized, from extra gloves and bailer twine to different sized light bulbs and ground spices. But the main attraction was clearly the shelf to the right of the registrar.

A display of baked goods.

Cinnamon rolls labeled ‘cinnamon bunnies’ and shaped to have been baked with two small folds branching off to form ears, two enormous glass jars filled to the brim with cookies, aluminum tins filled with potato bread, oat-and-sugar covered muffins with chopped fruit baked in, and golden braid of a flaky sort of bread roll with a bright red strawberry jam filling. Next to the display on the counter were multicolored jars of jam, red, yellow, pink, and purple, all labeled with their flavor and that they were made by a Berthilda Bunny, with a smiley-face beside the name.

Gaster wasn’t at all surprised when CS-1 made a beeline to the display. From her laugh, the salesbunny wasn’t all that surprised, either. When Gaster followed CS-1 up to the display, she began to speak.

“Nice to see some new faces around. Anything you two are lookin’ for in particular?”

“Just some breakfast,” Gaster said, managing a flickering smile back. The salesbunny accepted it with grace, leaning against the table in front of her and watching CS-1 stare wide-eyed at the treats.

“Your son?”

“Yes. Sans,” Gaster said. The name was… probably not a real name at all. But when the bunny at the Inn had asked for it the night before, Gaster had panicked—two anxiety attacks and no sleep for forty-some hours was not a sustainable combination—and… CS-1’s hissing sounds had formed something that worked well enough. It wasn’t too different from his designation. Easy enough to remember. Sans. “He hasn’t quite gotten the hang of speaking yet, so if he doesn’t respond, that’s all it is.”

“Still a young thing?”

“Yes,” Gaster said, “Very.”

Gaster wondered what he’d looked like at a little under a year old. Probably nothing like CS-1.

A small click brought his attention away. He looked down to find CS-1 gesturing towards the display booth, indicating he wanted something, and…. Indicating to everything in the display. Gaster snorted. He couldn’t help himself. What a kid.

“You can’t have _everything_ ,” he told CS-1, speaking out loud for the benefit of the salesbunny, who he did not want to get on the bad side of just yet. “I can’t carry that much, and there’s no way you’ll eat all of it in one go.”

“I can get a bag, if you need it,” she said.

“We probably will,” Gaster glanced back up towards her as he spoke. “Um. C-can you tell us which might last for later?”

“Sure thing.” She stopped leaning so heavily on the counter, getting up instead to stand by the display and gesture to a few things. “Everything’s best fresh, o’course, but the cookies and rolls will probably last longest. Just keep ‘em covered up.”

Gaster nodded and glanced back over at the display, considering. If CS-1 liked the rolls, that would also simplify the whole idea of breakfast in general—like usual, his hands moved faster than his mouth, and before he could think of how to form words, he’d told CS-1 in Wingdings that they could get the cookies and bread for later, and eventually come back to try more, but for now he should just pick out one of the jars and one of the other foods to eat.

While CS-1 narrowed his eyes at the row of jars and seemed to scan them back and forth intently, Gaster glanced back at the salesbunny, who was watching curiously, and stuttered a moment without actually forming anything that made sense.

“Sorry,” she said, covering her mouth with a paw a moment later, “Is it rude to look?”

“No, no, I, uh, I didn’t mean to do that without speaking,” he said. “It’s just—like I said, he doesn’t, um, quite talk yet, so it’s just a way to communicate is all.”

The bunny nodded slowly with an ‘ah,’ sound, as if that explained everything with no more questions asked. Then CS-1 clicked at him again, and Gaster turned to look.

“He, um. …he wants to know if you have any jars of blue jam?” A third of his mind was wondering why blue jam, another conjuring images of a surreally luminescent bright blue jelly, and a final part was stuck on the implication that CS-1 had seen the jars, noticed the variety of colors, and inferred that there would be more colors, and then _asked_ for them, despite no indication being given that they would be provided, if there even were more colors at all.

That was. That was something, he realized. That CS-1 assumed it was alright to ask for more than what was right in front of him.

That wasn’t a bad thing, not at all, but—Gaster couldn’t think of anything he’d done to help instill that assumption. Was it innate? Was it something learned elsewhere? Did he unintentionally help with that assumption without realizing it?

He remembered kids from his youth, kids from the children’s shelter, who despite otherwise having grown to be sound and healthy, never even thought to ask for more. Not out of fear, not out of carelessness, they simply—didn’t think of it. Forgot there might be something more for them.

“Sorry, sweetie,” the bunny said. “These types are all we’ve got right now.”

CS-1 gave a little huff at that, but leaned himself against the counter and put all his weight onto one crutch so he could lift up a hand high enough to point at the purple jar.

On the top, it said _Blackberry Preserves_ in a tight, neat script. The bunny smiled and nodded at him, before ducking underneath the counter, pulling out a nearly identical jar and setting it on the counter. “What else, hun?”

Despite his apparent assurance that he would get what he wanted, CS-1 still glanced back and forth between the display case, the bunny, and Gaster, before settling on staring at Gaster while gesturing to a fat cinnamon bunny in the corner.

Gaster nodded and turned to the salesbunny, whose ears perked up attentively.

“Two cinnamon bunnies,” he said, and ignored CS-1’s blink, “Two of each sort of cookie, and a tin of rolls.”

“Sure thing, hun,” the bunny said before turning back to the display case, pulling a napkin out from behind the counter, and opening the jars of cookies.

While she was getting them, Gaster gathered his resolve and asked, “Could you tell us a bit about Snodwin? We’re…”

“…not from around?” she finished for him once it was clear he was searching for words and having a pretty terrible time finding them. She started packing the cookies, jam, and potato rolls into a brown paper bag as he nodded. “I figured. You don’t really look like you’ve got any relatives around to visit, either, so I’m assuming you’re just poking around?”

“Something like that,” he said, very, very aware of what _don’t look like you’ve got any relatives around_ meant. “And, yeah, there, uh. There aren’t many skeletons outside of the Capital. But ss-Sans’s health being what it was, we wondered if maybe getting him out of the city might be beneficial. Even if we didn’t really know anyone.”

It was strange hearing the lie come out. Usually, he said there were other skeletons at Snowdin, since few monsters traveled too far from home. Still, it seemed people in Snowdin kept to themselves about as much as people in the Capital did, and the salesbunny swallowed the lie easily.

“Well, if you’re looking for a full meal, Grillby’s is pretty good. The Inn next door’s run by my sister, if you haven’t already found somewhere to sleep. If she offers ya dinner, don’t be afraid to say ‘yes.’ Otherwise, not too much to do out here. You can do some presents for Gyftmas out in the town square, and the library’s got a kid’s corner if your little one needs some puzzles to do.”

“Thank you very much,” Gaster said, taking the paper bag once everything was set snug inside it, and pulled out his wallet to pay. Not the healthiest meal he’d ever gotten, but it seemed like most of his day was going to be trying to scout out other places in town and appeasing CS-1, so he still tried to count it as a success.  

He wished the salesbunny a good day and heard her do the same as he refocused his magic back on CS-1 and helped him walk slowly towards the door.

Back out in the snow, CS-1 had about as much luck as he had before, and Gaster paused a moment to decide that even though the walk was short, he’d rather carry a lot than get another headache. So he gave up pretense. Let his eyes glow—tried to keep them a little bit closed, so at the very least the light wouldn’t travel _far_ —and levitated the bag while he stooped to pick up CS-1 and carry him on his hip back towards the hotel.

Nod at the desk attendant. Eyes down. If he kept the floating bag close to his side, maybe people wouldn’t notice it very much. Please don’t ask questions.

Halfway up the stairs he found himself going over the conversation with the salesbunny in his head, wondering where the catch was, when he’d worn out his welcome, if she were suspicious of anything—

—he stopped even attempting to hide the glow of his magic and opened the door to their room before he was anywhere near it.

He was. He was being ridiculous. Maybe being in a new place where he didn’t know things by heart was stressful, sure, but CS-1 was handling it stunningly well by just going along with things, and _he_ was the one with things to actually be afraid of, so Gaster really had to stop being the more dramatic of the two.

He set CS-1 back down on the bed, stepping over the discarded pillow he’d used for his own rest, and a moment later set the bag of food down on the table. Shut the door from halfway across the room. CS-1’s crutches slid away from his arms and set themselves upright against the bedfame. His leg braces unbuckled and unwrapped themselves with practiced ease. The canvas bag and the bag of borrowed electronics and parts were still by the door, lying listless against each other. Gaster levitated them both up off the floor, setting the bag of electronics on the table beside the snacks and the canvas bag on the floor by the chair.

Even if he were uncomfortable using magic somewhere no one was used to him, he was still going to do it in the privacy of their temporary residence.

He hoped there was a cave wall nearby. A cliff. Something sturdy. Maybe he could burn out some of the nerves that had been gnawing on him ever since stepping into the shop, ever since talking with Ursama, since arriving in Snowdin at all, since he’d woken up and come face to face with an intern acting suspicious in CS-1’s room—

Yeah. Yeah, he needed to. Do something that involved more magic than usual.

No one would come for them. Not nearly yet. He couldn’t be this fidgety about things that weren’t even about to happen. Ursama would hold down the fort back home. She’d look into things properly. And if she didn’t manage to keep a guard being sent out for them, they’d still have to get through _him—_

CS-1 was still on his bed. Frozen. Watching Gaster with wide, wide eyes.

…Gaster restrained his magic.

It was like trying to put on clothing that was just a little too tight. Sleeves a little too small. Pressure in the wrong places. Made him feel like everyone could see it, see that things were just a little bit too off.

But that didn’t mean he was allowed to scare CS-1. Not after he’d already been given far too much of the kid’s trust. Even the occasional dark glance he’d been getting was far less than he deserved.

Silently, he turned back to the paper bag and rifled around inside, producing the two cinnamon bunnies, and handing them over along with a paper napkin. “Here.”

CS-1 took the cinnamon bunnies, one stacked up on the other. They were so large he could hardly hold one without using both hands.

Surprisingly, he didn’t tear into the still-warm treat immediately, as Gaster expected he would. Instead, CS-1 glanced back up at Gaster and made a small sound. One a bit different ones he tended to make. Closer to a grunt or a warble. Then, clumsily, he extended one hand holding a cinnamon bunny back to Gaster.

“Don’t want it?” Gaster asked, and CS-1 shook his head, then nodded, then just set the other cinnamon bunny down on the bed so he could speak with one hand—something which took several tries, since his hand was suddenly sticky with glaze and melted sugar.

 _For you_ , he said.

Gaster closed his eyes and pursed his lips.

 _Thank you_ , he said, folding the cinnamon bunny back into its wrapping. _But I don’t need to eat. If you want this one later on, let me know. I’ll get it for you._

He set the rejected cinnamon bunny down on the table and crossed the room without any further ado. There were some clean hand towels in the closet of the washroom, he remembered that much from the morning. He’d take one and have it to help wipe off the frosting and sugar of the rolls and anything that flaked onto the bed. He charted out the rest of the day in his head.

He had to ask CS-1 what happened in the lab, but he’d have to help reassure CS-1 of his safety in Snowdin first. So perhaps the first order of business was to just. Keep relaying information. Talk him through the differences between the lab and the outside world. Why Gaster was calling him ‘Sans’ instead of CS-1 when speaking aloud.

They could go to the library.

Maybe. Maybe there were things in the local library that Gaster hadn’t ever read before.

That. That would be nice. If he found something new. He didn’t have much paper to copy things down, but he could probably find somewhere that at least sold notecards for the younger children in school, or if all else failed, he could write his notes out on napkins.

Yeah. Okay. That could work just fine.

They were probably going to be in Snowdin a while. They’d have to do physical therapy and continue speech education here. Maybe, maybe expand some, though it would be hard to know exactly what direction to go in when Gaster would have to call Ursama up every time he wanted to double check something, but—

But CS-1 was a prototype. Far from completion, far from perfect.

As long as Gaster documented his progression, that was what mattered. Any sort of growth and change could be beneficial. And CS-1 could learn what he would learn, and it would be okay for him, at least. Because CS-1 _wasn’t_ going into combat, wouldn’t have been anyway, probably wouldn’t even live long enough to see the barrier broken at all, so—

So it was all okay. Gaster could do his duties and just. See how the kid handled Snowdin. Just keep him safe and happy and rebuild what trust might’ve been there already.

Yeah. He could probably do this.

When Gaster returned to the room, washcloth in hand, CS-1 was halfway through the cinnamon bunny, glaze smeared over his cheek, and looking content in his spot on the bed. He looked up when Gaster re-entered the room, and ever so slightly, his shoulders became more relaxed.

Yeah. Maybe things were going to be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, snowdin! We’ll be here for a while, hopefully, I think.
> 
> No OCs this time, but thank you to everyone who’s sent them in in the meantime! I’m so sorry if I haven’t gotten back to you yet :(
> 
> So. Um. The rest of this A/N will be a hellish demonstration of my devotion to rural areas. Because if people hadn’t realized it yet. I am from. Not-the-city USA. Haha.
> 
> (Please talk to me about rural areas. I’ll talk your ear off. )
> 
> Gaster’s methods of getting water/fire/food/warm/things/stuff/etc. in the first part are brought to you courtesy of someone who grew up in the middle of nowhere and distinctly remembers going outside to gather snow so we could melt it and let the dirt all sink to the bottom before using the clear water on top for stuff like watering animals and people. It should be noted that it takes a lot of snow—ten inches of snow is equivalent to one inch of water, and snow captures airborne pollutants from things like car exhaust, etc., so keep this as a thought in your arsenal, but always boil first or try to find another source of water first.
> 
> You may have seen a manual hand-pump faucet in movies such as Snow White and the Seven Dwarves! They are the best. They are so much fun. There’s nothing quite like the middle of summer, your hands covered in honey, mud, and wax (please don’t ask) and taking turns with the other cousins to work the hand pump. It’s still widely used both in the US, other first world nations, third world nations, etc. etc. and is often the basis of electric pumping systems… and in things like the ketchup dispenser at your local mcdonalds :0
> 
> The hotel is based on a) what we see in-game as canon, and b) a mish-mash of Sacred Hospitality (give ‘em whatever they’ll need and keep a polite distance, ask about the fam) , the old dorm special rooms at UVA (which I have not ever been in and do not attend, but have heard they have the original fireplaces still in and you get more wood outside your door each morning or s/t), and hostels (all bed, no breakfast.)
> 
> Jam and jelly are not the same thing in the USA. At least, not in my part of the USA. Jam still has chunks of fruit or seeds in it, while jelly is smooth and inferior.
> 
> All methods of doing things without electricity in this chapter are as authentic as I could give you. And are not nearly as far-removed from our modern era as you may think upon initially reading. Also, if/when the apocalypse comes, y’all are gonna need to know this shit. :\ Get studyin’.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snowdin continues to be a place that exists, somehow beyond all expectation.

The first week in Snowdin was spent slowly carving out an understanding of the area.  
  
Gaster had spent most of his life in the Capital. Barring the occasional trips to the Dump and Hotland, he, like many residents of the Underground, didn’t feel the need to travel far from his home. Even with the drastic shifts in construction the last two decades, he could still navigate Capital streets without any effort; he could still trace old, destroyed paths on any sketchy wall map he happened across.

He had no such familiarity with Snowdin.

The layout was simple enough—there was only really one main road, and the river. Using the two as landmarks, one could largely navigate Snowdin by sight alone. It was by far the smallest section of the Underground, its population huddled together in the way Hotland and Waterfall’s never quite managed.

A few stores and stalls sold produce and meals, and, to his delight, he found a place that sold soups and stews. Nothing fancy, just—hot, somewhat spiced vegetables in broth or cream base, maybe some bread or mushrooms. Gaster had grown up on hot food, and even though he didn’t plan to eat it himself, buying that same sort of hot, hearty meal for a kid made it feel like he was probably doing something right. Even if it was only buying a meal.

He probably could’ve continued that trend for quite a while, keeping the meals simple and their exploration to a minimum, except that CS-1… disagreed.

He was becoming stronger. Very, very slowly, between the exercise of Gaster helping him to walk out and pick up groceries, he was becoming stronger and he was getting tired of waiting to be told new things or given permission to explore. He’d scouted every corner of their hotel room already, and discovered crawling the same way a bird learned how to chirp: loudly and incessantly, with great glee.

As long as the door was locked and nothing heavy was up that might get knocked over, Gaster quickly learned that just letting CS-1 explore on his own was the best course of action. He couldn’t watch the kid constantly, so he’d taken to fidgeting around with some of his borrowed electronics in the meantime. He’d set up the room, looking around a few times to make sure it was as CS-1 proof as he could get it, and otherwise just listened to the kid scuttle around the room and make noises at things he hadn’t found on his last rounds. Sometimes, Gaster would look up from his work to find CS-1 curled up against the fire screen, watching the blaze intently. Other times, he’d have made himself a nest under the bed, or pulled all the quilts off in the name of curling up on the floor.

It was a pretty peaceful routine, all things considered.

Until CS-1 started scratching at the door.

After the first three days in Snowdin, he’d picked up a pattern, and he was determined to either keep it or expand upon it, apparently.

Most days, he was up and crawling to the door before Gaster even managed to pick himself up off the floor.

It was getting harder to do that, lately.

Getting up in the morning.

Gaster was tired. His bones ached, and not from sleeping on a hard surface. He just—he must’ve been expending much more energy than he was used to, helping CS-1 get around. That must’ve been it. Why he wanted to sleep longer. Lay down for three days straight and not bother getting up. Sign up for a real vacation. Clock out. Back in a week. Bye.

But he had a kid—a subject to take care of. So he couldn’t.

He dragged himself up, fixed his clothes, and helped CS-1 into his leg braces and crutches. Figured out where he was going to take the kid that day to keep him content a little while longer.

If he tired CS-1 out enough, there was usually an extended naptime. Gaster would be able to get a few much-needed hours of relative privacy. And then the kid would wake up again in time for another meal and round of exercise and exploration, and hopefully he’d sleep through most of the night.

It was a weird cycle, but it worked well enough, until CS-1 started getting used to the same walking routes each day, and the same pattern every night.

And Gaster realized he’d have to start branching out.

It was a terrifying realization.

He was already in a new place as far away from home as he could physically be, further out than he’d ever planned to go in his life. Everything was already way more new than he was comfortable with. And the kid wanted to just— _more_?

(The kid, who hadn’t known anything but the inside of a lab until a week before. Who’d known two, maybe three rooms in that lab—and… and had _something_ happen in a forth. Unless they’d brought him back to CL3 and the only reason Gaster noticed the strangeness was because CS-1 had been in the medical area that night. Gaster wished he’d gone back to check on CL3 that night. He wished he’d known more. He wished he hadn’t acted so quickly. He wished he knew what he was doing or had someone to tell.

He called Ursama, and when she asked how things were going, he told her CS-1 was adapting well to new environments. Then she asked if Gaster was hurt, and he said, ‘no.’ No, his voice was just a little shaky from talking so much. Sorry for worrying you. I’ll call back later.

The kid who’d only seen three rooms in his life was taking in this new world with ease. Maybe because he didn’t expect anything from it. Maybe because after seeing nothing for so long, everything new was a wonderful, surprising treat.

(Gaster remembered being terrified the first time he saw somewhere new after finding somewhere safe. Gaster remembered being a child, crying.)

One night in a fit of desperation to soothe CS-1’s curiosity, Gaster took him out to eat.

CS-1’s two favorite activities rolled into one: seeing new things, and eating.

Most food-selling places in Snowdin gave it to go. Because, the thing was, most places in Snowdin that sold food were operating out of sheds and garages. One or two of them might’ve had a little table and chairs immediately outside to eat at, but that felt hardly any better than having a snack on one of the benches that popped up here and there around town: it was public, it felt social, and people could walk up behind you at any time.

Gaster was sure CS-1 would love that, actually, being able to watch people as they passed by, but Gaster just wanted something to curl his back against and feel a little safer in, thank-you-very-much. When the kid got older he could go eat in places where The King And Everyone could come up and say ‘hi,’ but while Gaster was in charge, he was hiding in a corner.

That left them only one real option for a place to go out to eat.

Grillby’s Bar and Grill.

Grillby’s was notable for being the brightest, warmest building on the block. Its windows were always lit with warm light, and pale, half-transparent flowers actually grew in the pots out front. Snow melted right off the roof.

There wasn’t a single chimney on the building, so Gaster honestly expected the place to be horrendously smoky on the inside, but when he entered he spotted the actual cause of the heat and light—

A living flame.

…A very handsomely dressed living flame.

He’d seen plenty before, of course, living in the Capitol and Hotland, but—

Well, he wasn’t really expecting them in Snowdin?

…yeah, we was probably going to have to adjust his lie about skeletons living in the Capitol and Hotland, if he were asked here.

As the door swung closed behind them, he was so focused on the fire man that he hardly even noticed the cat.

“Hey, Cheeky.”

The cat was stout, not large, with matted orange fur and a long brown coat. Apparently he’d been sitting in the booth closest to the door, because he was leaning out of it, and pinching CS-1’s cheekbone between his claws.

“UM,” was the only sound Gaster got out, but he made up for it with his grip on the cat’s wrist and the dark stare of his eyelights going out.

The moment his cheekbone was free, CS-1 stumbled a little on his crutches, trying to maneuver himself behind Gaster, eyes wide.

“Hey, hey, hey, chill, pally, I was just,” the cat pulled both arms back and held them up in surrender with a crooked grin that to Gaster bordered on a sneer. His eyes were crooked and eyelids drooped. Deep circles under them. His stuttering sounded more due to inebriation than any nervousness or shame. “I was just getting’ a closer look at you buggers. Ain’t see nothing like ya. C’mere, kiddo, lemme see yer face—”

CS-1 made a “mmhh,” and shook his head, shrinking down a bit before, against all his indications, slowly shuffling back towards the cat—only to be stopped again by Gaster’s hand on his shoulder.

CS-1 blinked up, confused and worried, and started tapping questions for what to do on the metal of his crutches.

Gaster had to ignore him for the moment. He didn’t want to cause a scene or get stuck here at all, but there were already people looking, and—

—and they were definitely thinking the same thing the cat was. Even if they didn’t like the cat pinching CS-1 either. Gaster could almost hear them.

 _Never seen a skeleton before_.

Gaster set his teeth and tried to smile, willing his eyelights back into existence, because if you weren’t anything harmful, people would forget you soon enough. “Yeah. We’re from out of town, but my kid’s not really the best on his feet yet, so I’m just a little nervous about people—” why the fuck would you even “—touching or pushing him and things like that.”

He shifted his hand to CS-1’s back, praying, _bullshit, don’t fail me now._

There was a sharp crackle that interrupted his thoughts, and any reply the cat was going to make.

Gaster looked over, blinking.

The sentient fire had left his place behind the bar and had entered the space of the confrontation, standing just a bit apart of Gaster and the cat monster. He fixed the cat monster with a chastising… flicker, and shook his head slowly, before turning back to Gaster and CS-1, beckoning them towards a booth near the jukebox.

The handful of customers who’d turned to watch went back to their own meals. The cat slunk back into his booth by the door, curling into his coat and pulling out a lighter. Conversation seemed to relax a bit more and pick up more fully all over the bar, and someone laughed, high and delighted, at a joke told on the other end of the building.

The sentient flame hadn’t so much diffused the situation as much as smothered it into submission.

Dumbly, Gaster kept his hand on CS-1’s back and followed the sentient flame towards the cozy corner booth, suddenly feeling a little lighter and looking at the flame with more respect than nervousness. Maybe even if it was found out about the lie of skeletons in Hotland, this flame would let them slide.

If Gaster’d looked down at the skeleton at his side, he’d have seen CS-1 staring up at the flame with a star-struck look of his own.

The flame stood by patiently as Gaster took CS-1’s crutches and helped the kid maneuver himself into the booth, looking over as Gaster gave him a quiet, “Um. Thank you. For just now.”

The flame inclined its head, and a few sparks crackled a bit louder than usual.

Gaster blinked, a thought occurring to him.

After a hesitant moment, he raised his hands and said, _thank you._

The monster looked surprised. As much as flames ever did. It was a little difficult to tell, with his entire face being just… light and heat, but, it still conveyed it well enough. A bit more yellow blazing up behind his glasses like eyebrows, a backwards tilt of the head, something that might’ve been the upturn of a mouth.

He lifted one fiery hand and let a few sparks fly up.

Gaster didn’t understand but smiled back anyway. An easier, more genuine one than he’d given anyone else in town.

He liked to imagine the odd shifting of the flames was the monster smiling back.

They were presented with two menus and the flame monster bowed out.

When Gaster glanced back at the booth by the door, the cat had slunk outside. Possibly without paying the bill. But either way, he was gone.

He took a moment of deliberation figuring out where to sit down, not sure if he was supposed to sit beside CS-1 or across from him, but a moment later took a seat beside the kid on the same boothseat, opening one of the menus and beginning to point out their options while CS-1 leaned in close, eyes wide and shining.

“Fries. Fff-rrr-eyes. They’re like soft pota…popato chisps, but sliced differently. Burgers are…”

The bar was bright and warm and reminded him just faintly of when he was growing up, his father keeping the apartment warm constantly with fire magic and the weird way it always smelled a little bit sharper than normal fires did. The gabber and conversation of the rest of the bar didn’t seem so loud anymore. It was all just… background noise.

It was… it was nice.

It made Gaster want to beat his head against a wall and gut himself on the bed frame, because he wasn’t supposed to be here, damnit, he had shit to do, but—

Objectively. Definitively. With its colorful lights and slow pace, quiet streets and snowcapped trees, and, and a bar and grill that felt like a home he hadn’t had for years, Snowdin was…

Really peaceful.

Really nice.

CS-1 ordered fries and offered some to Gaster.

They were delicious.

000

Without a work schedule, it took Gaster a while to figure out what, exactly, to do with his waking hours.

  
There were some simple things that would remain familiar and constant as the months previous. Overseeing CS-1’s physical therapy. Trying to coax new sounds and words out of him. A new component was added as well—practicing his magic.

Nothing too extreme. Just. Helping CS-1 shape it. Control it. Not fear it or be overwhelmed by it, as had happened occasionally in the early weeks of consciousness.

Can you form a bone? Can you form another identical bone? Form five exactly. Create a different shaped bone. Form five of those. Change one of them to a different shape while retaining the form of the others. Move left. Move right. Summon bones from surfaces without breaking those surfaces. Dismiss your bones. Why are you making your bones spin around like that. Yes, I do see the bone pinwheel, now where did you learn a concept like a pinwheel—

But those weren’t enough to fill up the day. Not by a long shot.

After a few more days of existence in Snowdin, recovering his magic and learning the area, Gaster helped CS-1 into his crutches and walked him to the library.

The sign was misspelled. Not a promising sign.

They entered anyway.

It was a spacious building, which was always a little unfortunate for libraries, but it was doing its best. More importantly, it was well lit, especially compared to some other buildings in town. The empty space was filled with several large tables.

A small group of monsters huddled around one of the tables closer to the door, talking across the room to the desk attendant.

Gaster found himself ducking down a bit as they passed that table, as if just ducking would make the words could go right over his head and he wouldn’t interrupt them or attract any notice.

Aside from that first table, the library was abandoned. Gaster and his experiment made their way towards one of the many unoccupied tables towards the back of the library, near the shelves.

As they went, CS-1 looked around in what seemed to be confusion. Of course, he kid quickly turned that into curiosity. When Gaster made to put his bags down on the chosen table, CS-1 kept walking straight for the aisles, squinting at the spines of the books. He didn’t seem to fully know what to make of them or what they were all doing here.

Gaster hurried over to him before he took a bite out of one of the spines.

 _Sit and wait_ , he said, knowing it was definitely not what CS-1 wanted to do. Still, CS-1 only made a face before going over to the chairs and shuffling into one, scraping it on the floor as he did.

A few heads from the front turned to look at them. The same heads ducked back down a moment later. Just a kid. Go easy on him. He’s just a kid.

No one looked over again.

Gaster…

Wasn’t really sure what to do, again.

It felt like that situation was coming up a lot more often than he liked, lately. Different then not knowing what to do in an experiment or while fixing something mechanical. No right answers, here. Just a lot of wrong ones.

He bought time to think by browsing the shelves, searching for anything he hadn’t read and, with any luck, a ‘learning to read’ type of book.

(It’d been days, fuck, what was he going to do, what was he going to do but _wait._ )

He honestly wasn’t really sure how reading was supposed to be taught. He’d never _been_ taught. Before college, it’d been homeschooling, and before homeschooling, it’d been gut instinct and mimicry. Somehow, amidst all the mess of his childhood, he’d learned how to read without direct instruction. He remembered hearing the words and following along on the page of a bedtime story without effort, understanding quickly how the sounds and symbols were connected.

He just. Had a hard time _replicating_ anything about that connection.

He wondered if that was common. Reading before writing. Understanding before speaking.

He wondered if CS-1 would be the same.

Even though he was already speaking far earlier than Gaster ever thought he would.

( _“Sah,”_ he’d said to Grillby, the living flame, when giving his order. Gesturing to himself, “ _Sahn.”_ And Grillby had responded by pointing to the name at the top of the menu and sending out sparks in a way that might’ve been a laugh, and letting Sans try to grab his fire the same way he’d tried to snatch the false flame from Gaster’s hand that first morning—)

Gaster couldn’t leave CS-1 in the hotel room alone and unsupervised when he wasn’t even sure how long he planned to be in the library. If he gave a time he’d be back, CS-1 could usually weather the separation fairly well. He no longer looked so terrified or betrayed when Gaster stepped out to make a phone call each morning. But the library would definitely be longer than a phone call. So  So CS-1 had to come along, and Gaster had to figure out how to keep an illiterate child from being bored in the library.

Thank the Stars for picture books.

There weren’t many, but there were more than anything else.

Snowdin library was small. Very small, Gaster realized. Smaller than he’d imagined.

About half the backmost rows were almost completely empty of books, everything having been moved up front to create a better looking area upon entrance. There were two whole rows of children’s books, most of them old and battered, but by number they dwarfed the rest of the library. There were a bare handful of scientific books, most of them actually old science journals published in the Capital that Gaster had already read. They had a history section of three books, one of them _Gerson’s._ Closer to the front was an admittedly wise number of cold-weather survival guides, interspaced with scrawled DIY magical manuals and photography albums, the latter of which Gaster quietly added to his slowly growing book stack.

The remaining shelves were scatted with with fiction and donated reports from the local school, bound up in binders and organized by grade level, subject, and name.

A very small library.

…Gaster wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting.

He made his way back to the table, not sulking, with a stack of books to look through. Two photo albums, one science journal, one washed-out surfacer book, and a small collection of picture books for CS-1.

He sat down, divided the books between them, and opened up the journal. In his peripheral vision, he saw CS-1 do the same a moment later, copying Gaster’s actions and opening one of the tattered children’s books to the first page and fiddling with the paper at the upper corner with his pointer finger. An action which Gaster quickly stopped, and found CS-1 stopping a moment later, glancing up and looking at Gaster for approval.

…kid had to stop this.

Gaster looked back down at his journal. CS-1 looked down as well.

A few minutes passed with only the quiet chatter from the front of the library to interrupt.

Then, a soft tug on his sleeve.

He looked up.

CS-1 held up the book, pointing at it. _What is?_

Gaster sighed, set down his journal, and began to explain.

It was a goose chase, words. Trying to explain the concept of a book lead to the concept of stories which lead to the concept of untruths which lead to _lying_ , which led to a _‘lying is bad!’_ scolding from CS-1, which was something Gaster was never telling anyone about, because he would never live it down.

Stories were… complicated to explain, it turned out.

Because what separated a history, from a fiction, from a fantasy, from a scientific text?

One was objectively false, one was… questionably true. One was probably mostly false. The last was guesswork based on scattered evidence.

Maybe it would’ve been easier if Gaster could even remember the concept being explained to him. But he didn’t. He just remembered being told some books were real, and some were fake, and deciding most of them were an ugly combination of the two.

…maybe it was just. Easier to grow up with the idea of stories. Something CS-1 hadn’t been able to do. But something that was better explained with experience than abstract concepts.

Like fire.

Like walking.

Gaster glanced back at the stack of books he’d picked out, leaning beside the bag he’d brought filled with his notes and writing materials. He hadn’t come to a library for story time, but—

He glanced back down at CS-1, who stared up at him with eyes filled with curiosity. It was probably a crime somewhere to be asked a question and not at least try to answer to the best of your ability. He hoped it was a crime somewhere. (He was glad it wasn’t a crime. There was a lot he didn’t want to explain. But here? Books? Stories? There was a lot to be said for understanding those. There was a lot you could do with that. None of it was practical for a produce of PERSEVERANCE, but—

He was a prototype. Gaster could do whatever and just call it experimenting. That was too much power. But no one could say he had no business teaching the kid something new.)

 _Pick one out_ , he told CS-1, gesturing to the small stack of children’s books. _I’ll read it to you._

Faster than he’d expected, CS-1 set the book he’d been holding down and instead snatched up the most brightly covered book in the whole stack.

Gaster nodded and took it from him, regretting this already.

On the cover of the book was a rabbit. He should’ve expected no less from Snowdin.

He shifted closer to CS-1 and watched for a moment as the kid shuffled a bit in his chair, getting closer too and trying to lean over. Gaster did most of the work for him, leaning in a bit and tilting the book at an angle so CS-1 could see it properly.

“‘It was a sunny day in the cabbage patch,’” Gaster began, keeping his voice as low as possible and running his finger beneath the words as he said them, hoping it would help CS-1 follow along and realize the connection between sounds and letters. Find meaning in symbols. Who even invented the alphabet? “‘and Ronny Rabbit wanted some candy…’”

CS-1 was already sympathizing with the main character after the first page.

He kept talking as Ronny Rabbit went around, searching for things to sell so he could have money to buy candy. Ronny Rabbit was apparently an entrepreneur, and a talented conman. Rather than offering to help harvest the cabbages in exchange for money, which was honestly what Gaster expected, Ronny set up a booth near the field and waited for his friends to come by so he could sell them things.

And if the background in the book was blue and there were water stains smudging every few words, Gaster said nothing about them.

“‘I’m hungry,’ said Sarah Sparrow. ‘Do you have anything to eat?’”

“‘Yes,’ said Ronny Rabbit, ‘Give me a nickel and I’ll give you a sandwich!’”

“‘Okay,’ said Sarah Sparrow. She gave him the coin.’”

“‘That’s not a sandwich,’ she exclaimed,’” Gaster continued on. “‘Yes it is!’ said Ronny Rabbit, roaring with laughter. ‘It’s a _sand-witch!’_ ”

Gaster had a feeling this book was going to go right over CS-1’s head. He also had a feeling Ronny Rabbit should’ve become a sculptor instead of a con-artist.

“Let’s, uh,” Gaster said, glancing down at CS-1, “…It’s not much further. We’ll read a different one when this is done.”

(Ronny Rabbit alienated all his friends with his conman ways, and finally made it up to them by buying everyone candy with the money he’d conned them out of. The moral of the story being, it’s okay to be a dick, as long as you buy them presents afterwards.

Humans had very telling books.)

They finished the stack of children’s books within the hour, only stopping once or twice to explain what something inside the story was. Not because CS-1 understood everything else, but because he was learning through context. And things always worked better when learning through context.

When that stack was done, Gaster helped the kid onto his feet and walked with him to the aisles of children’s books, neglecting to return to the table this time. They sat down in the middle of an aisle and read there, CS-1 leaning against the shelf and plucking new ones down as soon as Gaster got up to return them to their places.

He fell asleep there, somehow. Leaning against the shelf, legs taking up the rest of the aisle in front of him, head falling down onto his chest.

Gaster watched CS-1 for a few long moments before getting up on his knees, setting the last book they’d read aside, and helping CS-1 lie horizontal on the floor so he wouldn’t wake up because of falling over.

There was still chatter in the library, distant, and it was probably okay to just let the kid rest a while. He doubted they were closing their doors anytime soon with how excitably the desk attendant was talking with the table-sitters.

…Gaster got up and returned to his table.

All their items were still on it. His bag of notes, the stacks of science journals and photo albums.

He gathered it all up and moved it into an aisle in the children’s section, settling down a little ways away from CS-1. Far enough he wouldn’t disturb the kid.

He could use the hard cover of a book to stabilize his writing. He was used to hunching forward and working on his knees. This was no trouble.

He pulled out his notes. He didn’t feel like reading anymore, even though he was calm and collected now, after… that.

It was a little weird, the peace of the library and how easy his breath was coming.

Over an hour of reading children’s books and—he’d forgotten he used to like children’s books, hadn’t he? He hadn’t read any in a very long time. There was no need to with his work. And all his free time was devoted to—

He glanced back down at his notes and rubbed at his temples.

He might as well. He wasn’t going to get any other spare time here, and it wasn’t as if he could do but so much while CS-1 was awake. In the room, the had to worry about the kid messing with circuits or poking the wrong wire or hurting himself trying to pick up a tool, and it wasn’t like Gaster was going to work on his electronics outside of the privacy of the hotel room, but he could always work on his paper.

He’d been working on the paper for a long time, now. Sometimes it felt like he’d _always_ be working on it. It would never end. He’d never finish compiling evidence. Never figure out how to explain fully. Never be brave enough to publish it.

Maybe he’d wait until he was dead. Finish the paper and write up a will: scatter my dust on the earthquake-wracked section of the capital that hadn’t been repaired in the last decade, and publish this fucking paper. It’s hidden in a floorboard in my apartment. If you try to destroy it or stop it’s publishing, my ghost will haunt you and seven generations of your children, because your actions will have fully proven my thesis and I will be extremely bitter about that.

That sounded good.

He huffed, snorting out his nosebone and looking down at the papers again.

There was a particularly large child’s book nearby, almost the size of his torso, with especially large print for early readers. CS-1 had passed it over, but Gaster pulled it out of its place on the shelf and placing the last page of his paper to read over once more before he started to write again—

_I have in my possession what I believe to be the sole book of its kind. I found it as a child while volunteering with my mother in the New Home Capital Library, sorting out old books in a store room which didn’t appear to have been cleaned since its creation, which I have sense learned was early in the establishment of the building itself during the construction of New Home. For the last two decades, I have guarded this book, reading and rereading it, and producing as many copies as I could of pages that were so damaged as to be nearly illegible. Those pages will be reproduced to the best of my ability in this paper._

_Though there are many texts referencing the oft-preferred-forgotten civil war which occurred shortly after the sealing of the barrier, to the best of my knowledge, this will be the first time the diary of Bradley Hand ITC, one of the last skeletons of the underground, has been_

And no.

No, no, no, no.

He didn’t want to write anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest star this week is shewhorantstoomuch’s Chester! He’s…. kind of a dick. Bradley Hand ITC belongs to elitigre on tumblr!
> 
> Why did his chapter take so long? Aside from getting into a hella rp with askull4everyoccasion, who’s written his own Gaster fic, A Year Every Minute, I, uh… my uh… computer…. Blue Screened on me. :T So. That among a lot of other things like… wow what even happened these last two weeks it’s a blur of Things That Kept Happening… a lot of things kept happening and the chapter kept getting pushed off. This is all I’ve got. We’ve got maybe two more chapters of Snowdin (maybe) and I’m… honestly a little scared of how fast this thing feels like it’s progressing.
> 
> I’m sorry about replying to VERY FEW PEOPLE last time! Again, things just…. kept happening. And that is a terrible excuse but it’s also exactly what happened.
> 
> I’ve got art commissions up on my tumblr (beabaseball) if anyone wants to get a $5 lineart or something and help me with cooleg and paying for this newfangled computer haaaaah….. ;u;
> 
> please help me i’m overwhelmed by everything very much
> 
> what Gaster experiences with reading before writing/understanding before speech is common in learning foreign languages. Often, it’s easier to understand information being given, rather than creating new information on your own. Thus justifying those really cool scenes in tv shows where two people are having conversations in two different languages and understanding each other perfectly. It’s also similar to young development among humans, where babies understand what’s being said to them LONG before they’re able to speak themselves. And as a young dyslexic kid, I could…. kind of read. Sometimes. I was functionally illiterate. But anything was better than my spelling.
> 
> This brings me to my confession: I have no idea how kids learn to read. I was just using some of the the things I’ve heard about people learning to read and an exercise or two I had to do when I was in 3rd grade that helped out. But really, I’ve got no one I can really ask, because my family is really weird with reading. I was illiterate but am now writing this to you through sheer force of will, I’ve got a half-bro who is still pretty bad, and my whole-bro was also learning disabled and couldn’t type on computers, but he learned to read when he was two years old. You know what most kids are learning to do when they’re two years old?  
> Talk. Most kids are learning to talk.  
> How.
> 
> (the first book gaster reads to Sans is based off a children’s book I read when I myself was a child, and I’ve been googling around for it, and all I can find is… Dr. Strangelove. So the book and plot definitely exists, but the candy/names/setting/etc have been adapted for this fanfic)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Week Four.

CS-1 said his first word, finally.

He said it to Grillby on their tenth visit to the bar. Waved the flame-monster down, making all the noises he'd come to master over the last three weeks.

Three weeks since the bad fall in the lab. Three weeks of phone calls. Three weeks of taking the kid out every day, and bringing him back to the hotel room, and trying to piece together some sort of semblance of—

Gaster wasn't sure what he was trying to piece together.

CS-1, though?

CS-1 had his puzzle, and it was words, and he was solving it.

He waved Grillby down, jerked his thumb to the menu header, and pointed back at the flame. _You. Grillby._

He pointed to himself next, jabbing his thumb into his chest, and said, "Sans."

000

…he must have been practicing.

Maybe while Gaster was asleep. Maybe while Gaster was working on the few electronics he'd brought along, trying to calm his nerves. Maybe CS-1 had muttered words under his breath as they walked through the streets to pick up food, or go to the library, or exercise.

Maybe Gaster'd been completely, hopelessly, utterly unobservant.

He knew he had, really. He knew he had, because as soon as CS-1 managed the word 'Sans,' it was like a shot had rung out, signaling the beginning of a footrace.

First came 'Sans,' then came, 'So,' then 'Sop,' which was his own version of ' _stop_ ,' which somehow had come before 'No.'

And Gaster had missed it. Missed when this… learning curve had begun. Missed CS-1 observing other monsters, apparently. Observing language. Practicing sounds individually. Now, he was stringing them together. Systematically. With _intent_ , and drive, and—

And Gaster was still being so unobservant, that even when he knew he should've been paying closer attention to CS-1, despite how peaceful Snowdin appeared, he still failed the kid.

Week four in Snowdin, and Gaster shuffled up to the desk attendant, head down and apologetic in his stance, his shoulders slumped.

He barely managed to say, "Ah, sorry to interrupt," though there was nothing to interrupt, and thought it a minor miracle when he managed to continue saying, "but I was wondering if you had a wash basin I could borrow?"

Four weeks and, considering how skeletons didn't really seem to get themselves dirty without outside help, up until this point the occasional scrub-down from the well-pump upstairs was more than enough for their washing needs.

It had finally happened, though.

CS-1 had finally fallen again. Gotten fast and confident in his movement. Put his crutch down at too-sharp an angle on a patch of ice. And Gaster hadn't been paying attention. Failed to catch him.

The innkeeper's cheerful face was a bit of a jolt to him, honestly. She didn't seem to notice if he were any more grim than usual. She just smiled and nodded, said, "oh, of course! I thought you'd—never mind, you can borrow the one down here if you like. I've already got a fire going if you want help heating it up."

He considered saying no. There wasn't any need to bother her.

"That would be really helpful. I—we don't want to trouble you, though, so if you just put water on, that would be enough. I just need to go get Sans from our room, if you could show me where to bring him?"

The hotel entrance was the front of the innkeeper's house, it seemed. The family lived on the ground floor and slept in one of the un-rentable rooms upstairs, the children all piled in one bed together. He didn't see the room, but the bunny explained the house, gesturing around as she led behind the front entrance desk, where a fire was roaring loudly in the hearth.

"I'll get the water started," the bunny said, smiling again. "Go on."

They were entirely too nice in Snowdin. Entirely too nice.

Maybe it was because he was a paying customer. They couldn't have had too many of those, with how little the underground was and how few monsters desired to leave the area they'd been born in.

He wasn't sure what made him feel better or worse. Only that he wished the rabbit were somewhere far, far away when he came down the stairs carrying CS-1, instead of making that horrified face.

"Goodness me!" the rabbit said from behind the counter, apparently abandoning all thoughts of letting Gaster do the work himself and hurrying into the back room once again, keeping the door open for him and beginning to pour the half-heated water into the bin.

"Is that dust on him? Is he alright?" she said, sprinting away and back a moment later with two clean washcloths. "You didn't say he was hurt, should I call a doctor—?"

"He's fine!" Gaster said, trying to sound reassuring but probably only sounding desperate. Still, CS-1 waved cheerfully—tiredly—and gave a weak smile. It seemed to relax the innkeeper, though. Which was more than Gaster could do. "He just took a fall and scraped his shins up rather badly. He-it's part of his condition. He… he dusts easily. But he's fine, now. He's all healed up, just tired. Right, Sans?"

CS-1 nodded, smiling, and gave a thumbs-up.

He had figured out the 'acting' thing. The lying thing. The longer they stayed in Snowdin, the better he got at it, figuring out what his cues were and how to keep people assured things were all normal.

He was still watching and mimicking Gaster. That meant more than opening books and copying fidgeting habits and sitting pensively until becoming bored.

That also meant learning to become nervous when others appeared upset.

Meant hiding that nervousness with appeasement.

Meant not letting anyone see all your tricks, and to never make anyone afraid of you. Never be threatening. Only congenial.

…they were skills he might need one day, Gaster accepted that. Appease any other researchers he stayed under. Any superiors.

He still wished he had something braver to teach him.

Gaster set CS-1 down by the tub as the rabbit finished filling it with warm water. Helped CS-1 shed his clothing. And put him in.

The little skeleton relaxed into the temperature happily, curling up on his side, content to let Gaster do the work.

Not that CS-1 really knew how to wash himself. Even if every monster they met assumed otherwise, he was still only a handful of months old, so.

Well. Now, with a witness, was not the time to teach him cleanliness, even if his movement had improved to the point where he might've been able to. Even if the bunny assumed CS-1 could've washed on his own.

Gaster could be the concerned parent after an accident hurt his child.

He could be that.

He sighed and picked up one of the washcloths the bunny had supplied, lathering it with soap and beginning to rub over the spot on his leg that was still covered in a dust that almost looked like flakes of rust.

Dust clung, he knew. It clung, and it was hard to get out of clothes, and… it was all just a really terrible irony, in a way. That the dust that clung so strongly to anything it touched was still not strong enough to keep on clinging to life.

"I'm sorry about your rags," he said, continuing to try and wash the dust away as CS-1 waited passively in the tub, watching the two adults. "They… you may not want to use them anymore."

"It's fine," the bunny assured him, looking sympathetically at them both. "I remember when my little Pip hurt her arm and flaked dust for a week. Nothing nearly quite like this, dear me, but I remember it."

"How many children do you have?" Gaster asked, taking the first chance he could to move the conversation away from his own supposed child.

"Three at the moment," the bunny said, her face brightening up, and not at all shy to imply that there might be more little rabbits coming along some day. "They're all still such little things, but Pip started school just the other year, and—"

There was nothing a parent could talk about quite like their children.

Gaster sat in silence and listened, cleaning CS-1's wound and checking to make sure it wasn't any worse than he'd already determined it to be. Made sure the leg had healed at a proper angle. He nodded a few times to the rabbit's talk, asking a general question about how her children liked school and their favorite classes, when appropriate.

He'd never been to school, himself. Not like the rabbit was talking about. When she started explaining about homeroom teachers and designated lunchtimes, he kept nodding and listening to her depiction of normal family life.

"When do you start school, sweetie?" she asked, smiling down at Sans, who looked over to Gaster.

"He's still a little too young for that," Gaster said, "We age slowly. He's still got a few years, don't you?"

Sans nodded, and smiled.

The portrait of two people who knew exactly what normal was, and certainly not because they'd observed it from a distance.

He dried the young skeleton off. Wrapped the injured leg to give some extra cushioning, just in case it was more fragile after the fall.

He thanked the innkeeper for her assistance when she offered to clean up the bin and let Gaster get upstairs and make sure his little one had some rest.

He knew the names of all three of her children, now. He knew her eldest, Pip, had been in school for two years, and loved science, because she'd been given lots of assignments to try and make a plant grow underground and seemed to have a knack for it. Her favorite food was carrot stew, and her bedtime was apparently too late for her, because she always dozed off early.

He knew all sorts of things about the innkeeper's children, but didn't even know her name.

…best to keep it that way.

Cleaned and bandaged in a new change of clothes, Gaster set CS-1 down on the bed once more, pulling out a cinnamon bunny for him to eat, in case the health boost might be helpful.

He was tired himself and ready to lay down a while, or take an hour or two to himself, just messing around with his electronics and not thinking about much of anything. Hopefully, he'd be able to convince CS-1 to take a nap of some sort; surely he was also tired after the ordeal of hurting his leg, and the bath ought to have relaxed him some, so—

He was brought back to the present by the insistent snap of fingers.

CS-1 looked up at him from the bed, cinnamon bunny still in one hand, and his bandaged leg tucked up under him.

_Yes?_ Gaster said, waiting for CS-1 to perhaps request a book be read to him, or a cloth to wipe his hands once the bunny was finished.

He did not expect CS-1 to look at him with wide, unwavering eyes, and ask, _What am I?_

000

Deep in the woods of Snowdin, a door opened.

000

_What am I?_

Gaster tried to laugh it off.

_A skeleton_ , he said.

CS-1 frowned, as much as he was able, and clicked his finger again. He set the cinnamon bunny down on the bed—and a part of Gaster winced at that, wanting to hurry over and scoop it up before frosting got all over the quilt and fiber got stuck in the frosting.

_What am I?_ CS-1 repeated, this time with both hands clicking at him, eyes darkening. _Why am I like this?_

…and Gaster did not take a breath. But. Reminded himself that there was no reason to lie to CS-1. That lies would only make things worse.

There was no point in apologizing for what you were, if you didn't even know what that was in the first place.

_You're the prototype of project PERSEVERANCE_ , Gaster said, keeping his face calm and his hands steady. _Once the King breaks the barrier keeping us underground, the creatures that are made from data gathered from you will act as the first line of defense against humans_.

There was a lot of context CS-1 didn't have for this conversation, but he didn't ask for it.

He just looked down at his leg. His easily broken, quick-to-dust leg, and placed a hand over his ribs where one had broken off completely the month before.

Gaster was quick to snatch his attention back.

_You're an imperfect first attempt_ , he said, for there was no shame in that. _Your only duty is to help us gather new information for how to proceed in the future. That's all. You won't be fighting._

CS-1's eyes shifted around, flicking from one area of the room to another.

_I won't?_ he asked. _Then? Why do I have to learn to fight?_

Gaster's face twitched into a frown again.

_We just want to figure out how to teach your future versions magic more easily. You won't have any combat training. You're too fragile for that, anyway._

( _You're self-aware,_ a part of Gaster's mind whispered. It sounded like hissing in the back of his head, sounded like, _child soldier_.

But the king would never condone that. Not after watching his son crumble to dust in front of him.)

_But why?_ CS-1 asked, and then. Signed something Gaster had…

…he should have addressed it long ago.

Four weeks was too long to wait, and despite all his phone calls to Ursama, assuring her he'd talk to CS-1 soon, he…

...he'd been happy to let it lie. Whatever happened back there in the lab that caused CS-1 to go missing. He'd taken action when inaction meant obvious neglect, but now that the immediate danger was gone, he'd been happy to let it slide.

CS-1 had to bring it up on his own.

How pathetic. How.

How pathetic could Gaster be, that he had to wait for a child to bring up their own trauma, rather than addressing it on his own?

He watched CS-1 sign and felt his soul plummet.

_S,_ CS-1 said. _S said I had to fight._

000

It was too cold.

Footsteps in snow.

A sentry perked up, dog ears twitching.

Footsteps in snow.

Dust in snow.

000

Gaster swallowed down his hate and nerves and took a seat in a wooden chair, angling it so he was across from CS-1's spot on the bed, facing him.

_CS-1_ , he said, watching the child sit up a little straighter. _What happened when S took you? Who is 'S'._

CS-1 fidgeted, squirming side to side a bit before answering. _Told me not to tell_.

His eyelights darted from side to side, and he had trouble looking Gaster in the face. Gaster frowned.

… _I'm in charge of you_ , Gaster said. _Nothing's supposed to happen without my knowing. You can tell me._

CS-1 fidgeted again and deferred.

_Don't know how to say name_ , he said, still not looking Gaster in the eye. _S? Was closest? Wanted me to use magic. Couldn't use magic until you showed me. Made me use magic._

Something cold and jittery settled in the base of Gaster's spine like nervousness.

He'd been able to ignore this for four weeks. And now. Here it was. Coming, whether he was ready or not. Whether he knew what to say or not. Whether he knew what to do.

…some mysteries he wished he never had to be involved in. Wished had never occurred, so they would never have to be solved.

_You used magic?_ Gaster asked, and at CS-1's shallow nod, asked, _What did he make you do?_

CS-1 shifted again, bringing his fingers to his teeth and fidgeting like that, leaving only one hand to say, _Did bad. Not safe. Shouldn't do it until I can do better._

Gaster tried to make his smile feel real. _I'll be safe. Show me._

_Not supposed to_ , CS-1 shook his head, closing his eyes tightly. He wouldn't be able to see the wingdings in response. He knew what was coming. _Not supposed to or talk about it o until says so._

"Sans," Gaster said, voice creaking with strain. "Show me."

The little skeleton let out a whine.

So did the blaster he summoned.

000

Hours in the trees. Lips turning blue. Needed something warmer.

Took it.

Dark blue.

000

Gaster remembered the first time he saw CS-1 conscious and watched the little skeleton begin to melt. How he'd wished he could throw up, then. How the nausea had rolled through him, and how he'd felt the overwhelming need to act, if only to make it all stop.

He felt it again, staring down the bastardized version of his own magic, twitching and dripping on the floor.

Gaster knew all the skulls he could summon. Knew each facet of them by heart; how they worked, how they looked from all angles, how they moved and broke and hovered. He'd had models for almost all of them. The skull of a mouse he'd found to make his first one. The pieced-together remains of a flattened toad. A drawstring bag of kittens, all dead, all repurposed. A dog skull.

He hadn't had a skull model for the dragon.

He'd. It had been a memorial, that skull design. When he'd carved it, it had been a memorial to his father. Dead three months at the time. Gaster had sat down late at night, unable to sleep, and carved until morning. All guesswork. All memory. A few angles based off the few photographs he'd salvaged from the ruins of the house, ones he could barely stand to look at. He'd wrought that skull over the course of two days, fashioned it in grief, coaxed it to breathe fire, and applied to college the next day with a fever dream of becoming a scientist.

Bright, liquid magic dripped from between its slowly-shifting teeth, dropping like hot magma onto the floor and sizzling there.

"Sans," Gaster said, voice gone shaky. "Get rid of that. Tell me what S looks like."

The blaster crumbled. Pulling apart at the seams, its mouth twisting in a silent, anguished scream as the magic stopped holding together at all, splattering into a hissing heap on the floor.

CS-1 hesitated again, once he stopped shaking from the amount of magic he'd just expelled. He shifted around on the bed, eyes darting back and forth like he was thinking hard on the question.

_Long_ , he said, _always in container_ —

Before Gaster's self control could shatter, something downstairs did.

"Miod!"

He froze.

It wasn't any of his business, but—but that was the innkeeper shouting, and he wanted out of this room, and he was signing _Stay Here_ and walking out the door before he even knew he was doing it. He walked halfway down the stairs and leaned out, trying to see the source of the commotion.

A broken glass lay at the foot of the check in desk downstairs, water spreading slowly across the floor, but the innkeeper didn't seem to notice. She was too focused on the monster that had shoved her door in and was stumbling breathlessly onto the premises.

It was a bee monster. One Gaster recognized as a local vendor. He'd purchased sticks of honey from the same for tea in the first week. In the bee's arms was a young rabbit monster, dark-eyed and curled up in her yellow dress as if it would give her protection.

"Pip, Miod," the innkeeper said, helping the bee further inside, frowning in worry, patting her paws over the child in search of injury. "What in the world is going on?"

The bee released the baby rabbit, and Gaster watched the dark eyed thing scurry to her mother's side, clinging to her apron as the bee caught his breath.

"Miss Ann," he said, gasping, breathless, while his bag tumbled to the floor and a few sticks of honey rolled out. "Miss Ann, lock the doors, _hide,_ oh, geez, can I stay—?"

The innkeeper gave the bee a firm shake on the shoulder, wrapping an arm around her dark-eyed child and asking again, "What is happening, Miod? You're not saying anything."

"There's a human heading towards Waterfall," the bee said finally, the words stumbling on the way out of his mouth. "There's a human in the Underground, it just, it just—it's killing people."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the longest, but it will do.
> 
> The worst part about the askblog is now there's a lot of spare information that I'm trying to figure out what the balance is between making it work for the subplots, and what's overwhelming and boring information/repeated information for people.
> 
> Was the identity of S a secret to anyone, or did we all kinda already know?
> 
> Special guests this time are Pip, from tumblr's pip-ann, who lured me to her deviantart just to trap me there among really cute pictures? Truly devious. The bee at the end is Miod, jumpyscardycat's honey-selling four-armed, high-flying… bee! I can't think of a joke. Except my communication abilities. Because I still haven't responded to jumpyscardycat's message. Clearly, you all will have to do that for me and go message them about something you like on their tumblr blog.
> 
> This chapter owes its life to ASkull4EveryOccasion, who risked his sanity to beta in my place.
> 
> You think I'm joking, but you are allowed to think that, because you didn't see the typos he worked through.
> 
> High fives, everyone.
> 
> Human number 3 has arrived.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a human in the Underground...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by askull4everyoccasion with a secret cameo
> 
> Bradley Hand ITC is Elitigre of tumblr's oc! Roman is from a guest on ffnet
> 
> i can't feel my face

_There was a time when we believed the war was over. The weeks spent being rounded up like cattle and marched to the cave were what I thought would be the longest of my life, but at least the war was over. At least we were banished, rather than those who were too far to hear the news in time, too slow to make the trek. The humans will find them eventually. The humans will cut them down._

 

_I wish it could be said that no monsters here currently are subjected to that selfsame agony, but I fear I cannot. The other monsters still have not come to their senses, and my hope is fading._

 

_The place we hide today is filled with water. There are plants and rocks around, the sort of which I have never seen in my life. Any living thing down here seems to produce its own light, unhindered by the lack of sun. The water is cold and clear. There are flowers that whisper and veins of crystals speckling the ceiling. They make me think of the stars, but they are, in truth, poor substitutes._

 

_Roman likes it here. The boy spent hours among the blue flowers, talking to them and pretending the words they hiss back were part of a real conversation. It is not healthy to keep a child alone for so long, but there is nothing to be done for it. At least the false conversation helped him forget his hunger for a short while. There is still so little salvageable that I have found. No animals live in these caves save inchworms and insects too quick for my old bones to catch. I wonder if the plants are edible. I fear they are poison. I have lived too long to trust eating things that glow under their own power. It may save my life, or kill me. Either way, I will not take the risk yet. It is our third day without food, though, and that risk may be sooner encroaching than I would like to admit. We may be able to survive without food, but if we are unable to defend ourselves, it matters very little._

 

_Our hope at this moment is for the new monarchs to soothe the people and stop the killings. I am not a human. I stood my ground with my fellow monsters as a skeleton. I wish they could see. Our origins mean nothing to what we are now. I am no traitor, and certainly Roman is none either. Nor were Helvetica, nor Arial, nor Gulim. May their souls live on in the dirt they fell in, and carry them back to their fields. I haven’t heard from either Vrinda or Trebuchet for weeks, and without them I cannot bare to think what state their child is in. I can only hope they are safe, even if I know in my heart they are not. I fear the worst. Always, now, I fear the worst._

 

_To think, at one time, I feared humans more than anything, when it was my own kind’s cruelty that should finally kill me._

 

_-The second to last entry from the journal of Bradley Hand ITC._

000

Gaster fled the building.

He dashed back up to their room, told a startled CS-1 to stay exactly where he was, and climbed out the window, sliding down the thatched roof and summoning two floating bones to ease him the next two stories to the ground.

He landed well, rolling a little in the snow and hardly feeling any jarring at it, despite how out of practice he was. He stood to shake the snow off and glanced back up at the window ledge where he’d come from. A line of snow had been cleared off the roof from his descent, and CS-1 started down at him with wide, frightened eyes and jerking hand movements demanding to know what was going on and why he’d taken such a steep fall.

Gaster waved the child off, signing at him, _No time to explain. Stay and be hidden_ , before turning and sprinting towards Waterfall.

There was a human in the underground.

A real, living human.

Their third since Chara.

The first he’d be able to _see_ since Chara.

All up and down the streets, what few monsters remained outside were dashing into buildings and huddling inside with little regard to whether they were homes, shops, or sheds, so long as there were four walls and a locked door between them and the outside. If anyone saw him sprinting behind the houses, they didn’t comment, surely assuming he was risking danger to try and reach someone precious.

They wouldn’t have been entirely wrong.

  
Gaster remembered the last two humans who fell—one killed by a monster who’d followed Queen Toriel to the ruins and killed the human hidden within. The first soul delivered to Asgore.

The Queen sealed the tunnel to Home, trapping herself and the remaining monsters in its ruins.

The Underground mourned like she’d been the one killed in those winding streets. Mourning only made worse by how soon after the Princes’ deaths it was.

There had been regret. There had been hesitance and shame and fear in the Underground, to the point where the vigilante monster’s name had gone unannounced in an attempt to protect them, but the next human—

The next human had changed that.

Beating monsters to death where they stood.

The Underground mourned again.

Anything so violent to come out of the ruins could only mean their Queen was dead.

Gaster had been in college at the time. Watched the procession from his window as the monsters burned parchment and let it fall over the Capital in place of her dust, but he’d never gotten a chance to see the dead human. Never been able to get close or actually see the creature who had hunted Snowdin’s forests, killed by a panicked civilian before they could ever reach the town.

This one, though.

This was his chance, now.

Gaster kept off the roads, not wanting anyone to spot him as he hurried towards Waterfall. He only hesitated as he came to the river, fog covering the area from where the ground very suddenly became warmer than the air around it.

The snow turned to slush, there. Soaking his shoes in a way they hadn’t been soaked in Snowdin. He hesitated.

Not wanting to enter Waterfall.

He’d avoided the place for years, knowing who lived inside.

He’d used to go all the time—Waterfall. To the Dump. Picking out broken things and sneaking them back out. But he’d avoided it for the last decade, and had been beyond content with that, and now the human had made it there?

Why. Why couldn’t they have just… stayed in the forest?

His mouth tensed and his fists clenched.

Who knew when a human might fall again? Who knew if he’d even be in a position to see, when the time came?

He stepped through the fog and entered Waterfall.

000

It was damp.

Dust didn’t wash off.

She didn’t bother to try.

She would survive at any cost.

She deserved to survive.

000

Waterfall was damp, and cold, and… unwelcoming.

Gaster crept along the rocks, constantly looking over his shoulder, soul shuddering in his ribcage at every off sound. Every unfamiliar movement.

Waterfall wasn’t a quiet place, but it was quiet in the ways most people thought of things being ‘quiet.’ It had background sounds. The slosh of water rushing over rocks, burbling when it grew shallow, crashing when it fell. The whispers of echo flowers, repeating old history lessons carefully left intact and the footsteps of those who tread too loudly. The drip-dripping of forming stalagmites. The plop of the odd fish or water monster, popping up to the surface and immediately down again. The underfoot crunch of the lichen and fungi which somehow grew here, liking the damp, the dark; drawn to the the faint light and occasional warmth of monster habitations.

He crept around those—their lights out, now. Their shutters closed and doors locked tight, trying to avoid being noticed. Trying to let the human pass by.

The only lights now came from the rocks, and the mushrooms, and the pinpricks of his eyelights, barely enough to cut through the darkness.

He’d been wandering through Waterfall for almost twenty minutes and started to fear he’d taken a wrong turn. That perhaps he should have paid more attention to the side tunnels, rather than guessing the human would take the most direct and obvious route through the caverns.

Those fears were finally quelled when he came across the first pile of dust.

They were scattered beneath a flower, spread out, like it’d been gradual. Like they might’ve tried to crawl away.

Gaster took a deep breath, staring down at the dust and wondering how long it’d been there.

Who had it been?

There were clothes laying open on top of the dust, a vest, a scarf. A few gold coins that must’ve been in the dead monster’s pockets. A piece of paper, folded up several times, writing barely visible on the inside.

Gaster edged around the dust, pulling his eyes away after a long moment.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen dust. It was the first time he’d… the first time he’d been able to identify it as all belonging to just one monster, though.

Somehow, it was just as bad.

He hesitated for a moment, about to try and pass by, before he stared once more at the echo flower.

Glanced back down at the dust.

Didn’t want. Scared to?

Didn’t _want_ to step in it. Didn’t want to disturb it.

Knew that now he’d thought it, the question would keep him awake for days unless he answered it now.

He edged closer to the echo flower, very, very carefully minding where his feet went as he avoided the dust as best he could until he was finally close enough to listen, reaching out and tilting the petal just slightly in his direction to hear a little better what might’ve been this monster’s last moments.

…there wasn’t much. Not much of anything.

Heavy breathing. Human breathing. And a huff of finality.

He couldn’t tell where the loop ended or began.

He let the echo flower go, wondering for a moment if he should say something.

Erase the murder’s last mark on this monster’s memory.

…

He moved away from the echo flower and crept deeper into Waterfall.

There would be more piles of dust. He couldn’t stop for all of them.  

The next was by the rock wall of the cavern, smeared against it, like the monster had been slumping when it passed. Others in the middle of walkways, like they’d been knocked dead where they stood.

He counted two, three, four, seven.

Seven dead, just on pathways in Waterfall, once the warning had already gotten out. Once the cry for safety rang through Snowdin.

He didn’t want to know what quiet, beautiful, unprepared Snowdin forest looked like among the trees.

Gaster kept walking. Mouth tense until his jaw hurt. Shoulders hunched. Eyes flicking back and forth. He kept one hand to the wall at all times, as if we here scared he’d fall over the moment he tried to walk on his own.

The inside of his head was clear. Not sharp. Just loud. Loud and saying _you idiot. Finish what you started. Look what you’re getting into. They can’t be far off. Be scared. What are you going to get from this?_ but his legs wouldn’t let him turn around.

His legs were lead weights, barely skimming his feet along the ground, but they wouldn’t turn around, even as the wire in his shoulders pulled them tighter and the pain in his jaw began working up into the cracks in his skull.

…Waterfall was flattening out, now. The roar of water steadying into a quiet burble. Plants beginning to grow in the water. The glowworms emerging, lighting the cavern cyan.

He entered the Quiet Water, and froze, choking from his neck down to his base, at the human on the other side of the room.

They were tall and curved, arched in a way he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around, even when they stood perfectly upright and were slowly turning their head, left. Right.

Deciding where to go next.

Around their waste was a dark blue skirt. Wide and fluffed. Their legs were wrapped in ribbons. There hair pulled up tight. He could see the crease in the back of their neck where a spine should go—

“I think you should sit down nice and slow, now.”

Any cold terror Gaster had left flooded into him at the voice behind his neck.

Slowly, stiffly, he moved to the ground, propped on his knees. Eyes frozen forward, still on the human.

This.

  
This—

This was why he’d never, never wanted to come to Waterfall.

“Haven’t seen you around in a while,” Gerson said, voice low, creaky in the way it was. Gaster knew the hammer was out. Felt it tap the ground behind his leg. Knew Gerson was watching the human just as sharply as he was, even with one eye on the skeleton. “Shoulda figured this’d bring you running right back.”

(Gaster’d been thirteen. Irritable. No impulse control. Picked a bad fight—not bad for _him_ , but for the poor fucker nearby, and he hadn’t. He hadn’t wanted to stop when the other cried mercy.

Then the war hero showed up, and Gaster hadn’t stood a chance, and hadn’t been able to stop shaking when Gerson held the hammer just one last swing away from crushing his skull and said _don’t you ever let me catch you about to do that again,_ and—

Spared.

Only came to Waterfall for the Dump after that. Only snuck his way in, avoiding monsters and murmurs alike. Don’t notice me, he’s not going to spare me again—)  
  


“Not causing trouble,” Gaster said, whispering through his teeth, eyes staring forward still.

It’d been twenty years, and he still, still couldn’t shake that terror out of him.  

“Just wanted to get a look at your ancestors?” Gerson said, snorting in a way that told Gaster he couldn’t bullshit his way out of this one. The hammer was right by his leg, and Gerson always knew way more than he let on, way more than his frailty implied; wrote half the history books in the Underground and always left out that one crucial fucking fact—

000

She had value. She had worth.

  
She deserved to live.

She had promised the kind creature in the ruins she would survive at any cost, so she donned the clothing she felt most powerful in, and when she saw potential threats, she leapt forward, determined to be the one who survived.

She would not be torn apart by circumstances.

This was Integrity.

000

The bones thrust up through her stomach and lungs. Another slid right through her windpipe.

The hammer cracked into his spine and Gaster—three HP damage. It was shock that moved the hammer, not anger or hate—Gaster caught himself with his hands on the floor, line of sight broken, but not before he could see the bones. Not before a snapped rib poked out the side of her chest, and her spine broke, and—

“It wasn’t me!” he said, voice almost gone in panic. Didn’t even had to try to whisper his words this time. “It wasn’t me, I didn’t. I didn’t do—oh fuck. Oh stars.”  
  


He tried to crane his neck up and see over the water, see what was happening. Whatever it was that Gerson could see while the hammer was still shoved on his spine.

“Check my LV,” he said, only more frantic when Gerson didn’t respond, just seeing the edge of his beak, opened partway in shock. “I _didn’t—_ ”

“Kid,” Gerson said, voice low.

Hammer lifting.

“Get out of here.”

Gaster scrambled to his feet.

He fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a human in the Underground, and he's been there all along.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> are you ready, nerdfaces? 
> 
> (note: not undyne speaking. sorry. just author speaking like her)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recap:
> 
> Last time, Gaster raced out to Waterfall upon learning there was a human in the Underground, leaving Sans alone in his hotel room. 
> 
> In waterfall, he caught a glimpse of the human before being assaulted by Gerson, who is untrusting Gaster and is revealed to have assaulted him once before.
> 
> Then, in front of their eyes, the human is killed by a bone attack not sent out by Gaster. 
> 
> Gerson releases Gaster with a warning.

_Hope, compassion, and love. Any monster child in the Underground can tell you the components that make up a monster_ _’_ _s soul, and that human souls need none of these components to survive. Our ancestors wrote our history on the walls of the caverns, so we would never forget exactly what makes humans so terrifying, and it builds a sense of dignity and pride that our ancestors were able to stand against humans for any length of time during that war which wiped Monsterkind off the surface of the world. In fact, it is so impressive that monsters were able to stand against humans long enough that it almost raises a question. If Monsters are beings_ solely _made of hope, compassion, love, held together by magic and dust, how did we even stand against humans long enough that our own kind refer to it as a war, and not a massacre?_

 _-_ Excerpt from _Physics of the Soul: Observations and Extrapolations on the Source of Magic and Compassion by Dr. Gaster_

000

_There is still no identifiable food. We cannot go back, or risk the other monsters exploring the caverns finding us. Roman cannot sleep any longer for hunger. If this goes on, I fear we will shut down entirely. There is enough magic in these caverns to sustain us for an indefinite amount of time, but_ _—_ _I do not want to be sustained in that manner, only to be killed while I am helpless._

_We will have to try and eat the plants here, and hope they do no harm._

-Excerpt from the last diary entry of Bradley Hand ITC.

000

Gaster sprinted back to Snowdin.

Past the piles of dust and out of Waterfall. Through the fog. Into the woods. He wasn’t as used to running so far as he once was, and was breathing ragged and aching when he finally reached the back of the inn, eyes struggling to keep open, trying to force him to stop and breathe—he kept going anyway, not stopping until he’d summoned bones to climb back up to the still-open window, tumbled inside, and slumped against the wall with a frantic child scrambling over to him.

He knew hand signs were being made at him, but with his eyes partly shut, what got through first was the high-pitched, “What happened? What happened?” instead.

Gaster ignored it, pulling the small child into his arms and holding him tightly.

A thoughtless, meaningless, selfish action that had nothing to do with comforting the child, however much it might’ve appeared to.

In another two hours, the body would be recovered by the royal guard, and the message that the threat was over would spread throughout the underground.

One more human soul brought to the king.

Two hours later, and there was a knock at the door, and despite how fucking wonderfully calm Gaster was after everything that had happened today, he flinched back and clutched his chest and bumped into the table he was trying to write at.

“…Mr. Gaster?” came the innkeeper’s voice.

“I’m fine, one moment,” he said, voice strained as he stood up quickly, scraping the chair and making Snas groan unhappily at him. He crossed to the doorway and opened it quickly, coming face to face with the bunfolk innkeeper a moment later. “Y-yes?”

“There’s a phone call for you downstairs,” she said, straightening out her apron, twitching her ears. It appeared Gaster wasn’t the only one deluding himself about his current state of calm. “And I wanted to invite you and Sans to, um. To an early supper. Since things are still a little frightening. Especially for the kids.”

_Especially for the adults who were worried about the kids._

Gaster nodded, smiling a little. The innkeeper seemed just as nervous as he felt, and it was almost a sort of relief. If either made a fool of themselves, then at least it was mutual and could be easily forgiven. “Ah, yes, that.. that sounds like a wonderful idea, I’m sure he’d like that. Thank you, we’ll be there. Um, is it…?”

“Not quite yet!” she said, relaxing a little as he agreed. “It’ll be ready in about half an hour. I wanted to know how many to expect.”

He nodded, thanked her again, and repeated that they would attend before shutting the door once more.

He sighed a little, turning back to Sans and the little table by the window they’d both sat at before the interruption, Gaster with his electronics and Sans with a few wires and bolts, which he was stringing together as necklaces before tangling and untangling them, and trying to tie them together in different ways.

“Did you hear?” he asked.

“yeah,” said Sans, signing at the same time.

“Are you hungry?”

“yeah.”

“Okay. I’m sure there will be some nice food you haven’t tried before,” Gaster said.

Sans smiled a little bit wider. He held his tangle of wires—he was currently untangling them, as in, he had tangled them in order to untangle them—a little more carefully to free up one of his hands to give a thumbs-up. He hadn’t yet discovered a word that conveyed the same sort of peaceful acceptance as that precise motion did for him, so he’d yet to start saying that sort of acceptance out loud.

Gaster smiled a little bit back, though, glad that the events of the day, the conversation, the fall and the new bandage on Sans’ leg… glad all of it seemed to have left the skeleton not too phased. Maybe it was true that kids bounced back from things better? At the very least, Sans would sleep well tonight, and Gaster was personally very thankful he wouldn’t have to go outside to get their food. Not even the sanctuary of Grillby’s Bar and Grill was enough to make him want to leave the relative-safety of the Inn, and…

Another knock at the door.

He turned to it, not noticing Sans turning at the exact same time.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gaster!” the innkeeper’s voice came through the wood, and he relaxed a little again, not having realizing he’d tensed. She was still talking as he moved to open the door. “I know I was just here, but I got here and I just forgot—you’ve got a phone call waiting for you downstairs! An Ursama?”

“Oh—ah—yes—right!” Gaster said, glad he couldn’t see the innkeeper’s fluster, because it might make his own even worse. “I’ll be right down! Thank you!”  


He shuffled to the fireplace, putting fresh logs on the fire just in case he forgot to do so before the dinner when he came to pick up Sans again, and glanced over at the child.

 _You okay?_ Sans was signing.

 _Okay_ , Gaster signed back one-handed. _You be okay here alone?_

He was fully aware he had… neglected to consider that the last time he’d burst out of the Inn. Though the window. And come back shaking.

…Sans had looked upset in a way he hadn’t since they first arrived in Snowdin and Gaster snuck off to use the phone while the child slept.

_Want to come with._

Gaster hesitated.

He wasn’t used to that sort of sharp gesturing and sound from Sans.

After a moment, he nodded, and got up to help Sans into his crutches.

 _Okay_ , he said, _but I_ _’_ _m just going to be standing around. Nothing exciting. And you can_ _’_ _t wander off  because you_ _’_ _re bored._

Sans gave a little nod, swinging himself forward on his crutches and heading for the door before Gaster was even standing up straight.

Heh. Firecracker kid.

They headed downstairs.

The innkeeper was already in the back, making noise in the kitchen—when the door swung open slightly, Gaster caught a glimpse of the bee from earlier and the little dark-eyed bunny he’d carried in from the streets sitting on the floor out of the innkeeper’s way, a notebook and a handful of crayons between them.

He ushered Sans along to the telephone room, even though the kid looked like he wanted to join in.

He… maybe he could get the kid some crayons later.

Right now he had a call to pick up.

The room with the phone in it wasn’t very big. It wasn’t a very big inn, perimeter-wise, so that made some sense. It wasn’t like you needed a lot of space to make a phone call.

It was a little closet-sized booth, really, with the phone sitting on a bench on one side of the walls. There was another bench on the other side. A wooden folding door with glass windows was the entrance, letting people look in to see the phone was occupied without having to intrude or being able to hear the conversation, giving it some privacy. There was even a pad of paper and a pencil by the phone, in case one needed to take notes or write down a number.

There were clearly other things done with the pencil. Graffiti covered the inside of the booth—most in pencil, some in pen, and others carved directly into the wood with claws or a nail. Names. Dates. Declarations of love or reports of what Gaster could only assume were small-town gossip.  Little drawing of faces or characters. _Asgore + Toriel_ encompassed in a heart.

That one must’ve been old.

 _Chara in our thoughts_.

Gaster had read all of them.

At some point, in using this booth over the last few weeks, he’d stared at every inch of these walls—the drawings of stars, the scribbled doodle on the floor, a little face with a long nose peeking over one of the board-ends and blessings he remembered being said once when he was young, but heard much less now.

Sans hadn’t. Gaster helped pick him up and place him on the bench furthest from the phone and watched the kid start looking around with wide eyes, while Gaster tried to squeeze in around his legs and crutches and shut the door.

The phone’s light was blinking and the receiver was set beside it, a low hum emitting from it.

He sighed and sat down beside it, pressing the button beside the angry little light and bracing himself.

“Hello?” he said, voice low and cracked.

“ _Gaster!_ _”_

Ursama.

“Is CS-1 safe? Are you safe? Did anything happen?”

Gaster relaxed a little, sighing. “We’re fine. He was inside the whole time.”

“So you heard about the human?”

“Someone ran in and told us, yes.”

While they talked, Sans traced the graffiti in reach with his pointer finger before letting his hand drop and looking up at Gaster again, watching him fidget with the cord of the phone.

Gaster stopped mid-sentence to look at Sans, who looked back with all the unabashed, unblinkingness of a child who’d never been told not to stare.

“Gaster?” Ursama said on the other end of the line. “Is something wrong?”

It jolted his thought process back into something resembling actual words.

He still hesitated before voicing any of them, though.

“Ursama, I …I have… a question to ask.”

“Yes?” she said, voice a little brighter. Maybe she was relieved to get away from talking about the human? Oh dear.

“…have…” his voice died.

“…Gaster?”

“…sorry…” he said after a moment, shaking his head. “It was a stupid question.”

Even Sans looked like he didn’t believe it, and _he_ hardly knew what the conversation was about.

“There’s no such thing as a stupid question, Gaster.” It almost sounded like Ursama was trying to scolding him and smile at the same time.

He managed to take a deep breath and relax, finding himself smiling back very faintly, despite himself.

“What was your question? I won’t laugh. Don’t worry.”

“I just… saw something strange earlier today. It looked like a bone construct. I just… wasn’t aware there was a skeleton around, I guess.”

He expected a quick response. Maybe a laugh even though she’d promised not to. Something telling him he’d been seeing things, or yeah, that sure was pretty strange, and then he could stop being so rattled and just try to relax again and focus on his job, and—

…Why hadn’t she said anything yet.

000

Dinner that night was an old Snowdin Staple:

Snowpea Soup and roast carrots.

Miod had donated some of his spicy honey to melt down and mixed with some plain ice-cream sitting out in the back yard in a hand-crank for dessert.

Ann was there among all her siblings, Miod being swarmed with questions by the little ones whenever they found their mother wasn’t looking. Another pair of guests, or family friends, perhaps, also joined them: a tall, striped yellow cat with a Royal Guard emblem on the sword he hadn’t taken off for dinner, and a little blue ghost who seemed to buzz quietly on the occasion.

The ghost was eating some soup and carrots that had been burnt to a crisp as well as the innkeeper could manage.

It wasn’t exactly ghost food, but the attempt was there.

They all looked up as Gaster and Sans entered, Gaster’s hand left lightly on Sans’ shoulder.

He hesitated as the eyes all turned up to him, but Sans didn’t, continuing forward on his crutches and bobbing his head around, trying to figure out where he was supposed to go.

The innkeeper stood, smiling despite the quiet, tense sort of atmosphere that still pervaded the room.

(Gaster couldn’t exactly say he _helped_ that atmosphere. Each of his bones felt stiff and ill-fitting in their joints as he moved.)

“Mr. Gaster, this is Miod, Tybalt, and Metal,” she said, gesturing to the bee, cat, and ghost in order. They all glanced up once more—Tybalt maintained eye contact at least, but his face looked so much like that orange cat from the bar—Gaster gave a quick nod and smile, and managed to take a few steps forward with a, “Thank you for having us,” and finally all the eyes went down.

The innkeeper pointed to a seat at the table, and then a seat closer to the end next to it. Ann was shuffling to her feet and heading towards the same spot, all her papers still in her arms. Miod followed quietly.

Sans took the seat across from Ann, pushing himself into it and shucking his crutches without help.

This left Gaster across from Miod and beside Tybalt.

A small part of him realized that the Royal Guard probably had authority to arrest him if necessary, considering he had technically kidnapped Sans.

The rest of him immediately started thinking of all the ways he could’ve been reported or discovered by the royal guard, and why this one hadn’t made an arrest on the spot, unless he was waiting for the meal to end, and the innkeeper set a plate in front of him with a _clack_.

He jumped.

Apologized.

“Thank you.”

“It’s nothing! I didn’t mean to startle you again! Haha, we’re all sort of _jumpy_ right now.”

Sans nodded and made a ‘mhhuh!’ noise, and leaned into the table to eat his food and stare at what Ann was drawing. He wondered if that was a rabbit pun.

And then it occurred to Gaster that he’d never really taught Sans proper table manners.

He’d always sort of just let the kid do what he wanted so long as he didn’t spill food everywhere. But now all he could think of was that Sans was with his elbows on the table, his face far too close to his plate and taking huge, slurping bites before everyone was served and Gaster was going to get arrested and charged with kidnapping and everyone in the Royal Guard would know he hadn’t even taught the kid table manners.

“H-hey,” Gaster said, reaching over and gently touching Sans’ shoulder, distantly amazed he could even make himself talk. “H-how about we wait until everyone’s served to eat, okay?”

“Oh, no, it’s fine!” the innkeeper said, smiling brightly

No, it was not fine, he was trying to teach the kid manners.

Sans was giving him such a face. Confused and offended at being told to wait a few moments to start his meal. Was it really _that long_ for a kid to just sit still for an extra second or two?

…There went all his nerve.

Gaster removed his hands, looking sheepish and apologetic at Sans in particular, and watched the kid go back to chewing where everyone could see his food. Gaster was just so grateful he’d taught the kid about cutlery.

Aside from that… ‘eventful?’ Beginning. Aside from that eventful beginning, dinner went smoothly enough. Sans asked out-loud for seconds, and even said, ‘please’, when Gaster reminded him quietly. The little rabbit siblings had somehow distracted him from food long enough to get him drawing with crayons as well, towards the end, and this time Gaster didn’t mention anything, though he was _certain_ it was rude to draw or read or write or… do much of anything but eat and make polite conversation at the dinner table.

…

Tybalt asked Gaster where he was from.

Gaster choked out something about being from Waterfall, originally, in case they were looking for ‘a skeleton from the capital’ instead of… ‘the only skeleton.’

…

Though, he supposed they couldn’t look for ‘the only skeleton’ anymore, thinking about bones jutting out of quiet water.

He helped clean up the table when all was said and done, watching Miod shuffle over to the little bunny kids again as Tybalt started scooting the tables and chairs back into place.

“…thank you for dinner,” he said, following the innkeeper into the kitchen.

“Oh! It’s no problem,” she said, smiling brightly at him while putting the dishes in the sink. For some reason, Gaster felt like he was making people say that a lot lately. “I think it was just what we needed today.”

“Yeah, haha.”

“Got any plans for tomorrow?” she asked, starting to pump water into the sink. It couldn’t possibly have been very warm. He wondered if she could control fire magic. If she could warm it up just by sinking her hands into it.

“…yes, uh…” Gaster said, still holding his stack of plates, not sure where to put it, even as she was nodding for him to put them… somewhere in the cluttered little kitchen. “…we… I think Sans and I are actually going to… start heading back home, tomorrow.”

He managed it out. Saw the bunny’s eyes widen for a moment. “Oh!”

He felt his shoulders hunch up as he shrank down.

“I’m so sorry about how short-notice it is—“ he started.

“—oh, no, no, it’s no problem, I was just surprised!” she said, pulling her hands out of the water and flicking them dry. She reached for a rag nearby. “I mean, it _is_ very sudden—“

“—right, I know, and I should’ve told you but I only just found out myself and—”

“—It’s _really_ no problem; are things all okay at—?”

“—yes, yes, fine,” he said, finally taking a loud breath, breaking up the rapid flow of words. He let out the breath in one go. He felt himself shrink all over again.

“Yes. Things are fine. We just have to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm born to be the greatest i'm alive
> 
> ((summary: 
> 
> met skull. rp'd to high heaven. still doing that. got a job. quit the job. roadtripped to one side of the country for 2,500+ miles. back the other way in two days bc moving houses, which we are still in the process of doing. went back to college after a year away and am actually taking my schooling seriously. suddenly have potential career track. started a webcomic for another gaster [ http://undertalescreeching.tumblr.com/post/150053993369/ragester-comic-starts-this-week-next-patreon ] and .. got 'elected' president at a local animation chapter and am trying to figure that out? 
> 
> shit gets crazy
> 
> life gets better
> 
> sorry for the delay
> 
> sorry if i don't comment much
> 
> live it up to the fullest
> 
> <3 ))


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after the human's attack, Gaster has to go home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd again by askull4everyoccasion @-@

Gaster realized he had made a crucial mistake.

He hadn ’ t considered if Sans would leave Snowdin quietly.

And Sans would not.

He sat down and started crying like Gaster had never seen him do before.

He sat down when Gaster told him to pack up. He sat down, dropped his crutches to the floor, and  _ wailed. _

And Gaster stood there, dumbstruck, with no idea what to do.

_ Wait it out _ , he thought desperately.  _ It has to end eventually, right? Wait it out. _

Oh, stars, there was no way he could wait this out.

This sort of crying was a tearless process.

It was mostly screaming.

He ’ d never seen Sans ’ face so scrunched up.

He ’ d never seen Sans so  _ upset _ .

Oh, fuck, Sans  _ really  _ didn ’ t want to leave Snowdin.

“ Please stop …” Gaster said, fidgeting the words out with his hands at the same time, finding his feet pacing one way and then another in panic, unsure if he was supposed to reach out and scoop Sans up or keep as far away as possible. Instead, his fingers stuttered a little ways away from Sans, twitching and darting from one place to another while his eyes were stuck desperately wanting to look anywhere but the child and also not able to let the distraction out of his sight.  “ It won ’ t be that bad! It ’ s just a nice little boat ride, remember? ”

“ Noo, ” Sans said, signing at the same time, his eyes squeezed shut and his feet kicking.  “ _ Nooo! _ No going back! Noooo! ”

“ Why no going back? ” Gaster said,  “ It ’ ll be  _ fine _ , okay, it ’ s not gonna be bad? ”

Sans hiccupped and kept shaking his head.

“ What, what about, um. Shopping. We ’ ll go shopping before we leave, okay? Get you some more soup? ”

Sans shook his head, howling again.

Gaster suddenly regretted that Sans ever learned to vocalize.

There was a knock at the door.

“ Sorry! Stomach ache! That ’ s all! Will try to settle him down!! ” Gaster shouted over his shoulder before glancing back at Sans.  “ _ Stop _ . Please stop! Why are you acting like this? ”

“ Don ’ t  _ wanna  _ go back! ” Sans said again.

“ Why  _ not _ ? ” Gaster said, almost genuinely hoping for an answer, but once again, Sans just shook his head.

Gaster sat back, breathing deeply and holding his hands over his mouth. Breathed through his fingers and resisted an itch inside his palm.

“… is it better if you don ’ t go back to the lab? ”

“ Ye-es! ” Sans said, head bobbing, sniffling, signing.  “ Snow-din! Snow-din! ”

“ I can ’ t leave you in Snowdin. ”

No way to explain that, even if he wanted to leave Sans behind.  ‘ Oops, sorry, just lost your experiment in the back woods?  _ Where the human was? _ ’

But Sans started crying then.

Gaster tried to think about how to tells Sans that there  _ were  _ other places in the world besides the lab and Snowdin. But.

Well.

Where  _ would  _ he put the kid?

\--

…

Compromise was basically the way you were supposed to fix bad situations, right?                      

And you compromised by giving people enough of what they wanted that they gave you what you wanted, right?

And Gaster was a terrible person and absolutely would never ever ever ever ever bribe a child, right?

Because children weren ’ t really capable of understanding the repercussions of bribery and also it damaged them for the rest of their eternal lives, and it was entirely his fault if he bribed them while they were young, thereby skewing their vision of the world and taking away any sort of civic-mindedness they might ’ ve had?

That thought process was a very twisting, winding path that he could not make heads or tails of in his own head.

So he brought Sans to Grillby ’ s.

It was definitely not a bribe.

It was more like drugging him.

Wait, fuck.

He wasn’t good at this.

(Too bad. Sans was already in the booth seat, happily munching away at his fries. He shouldn’t be so apathetic as to say ‘too bad’ to this sort of situation. When he put Sans in it. Fully-knowing.

Uuugh. He was awful.

Super awful.

Fuck.)

He bought Sans another plate of fries, a hotdog and a soda, and settled into his corner, letting out a deep breath and rubbing his face.

“…like it?” he asked dully, and barely responded when Sans nodded his head. Then Gaster buried his chin in the collar of his turtleneck, and ignored it when Sans made a questioning noise.

It wasn’t really bribing the kid, or drugging him.

It was just. He was just going to give him plenty of food and let him fall asleep somewhere warm and comfortable.

Gaster kept telling himself that by the time Sans woke up, they’d be in Hotland again, and Gaster could just carry his bag, Sans’ bag, and Sans, _and_ Sans’ crutches up to the river if he levitated them just a little bit. People would just… assume he had well-muscled bare bones?

…they’d assume _something_. And it would be okay, as long as Sans didn’t wake up before Gaster got them back into the hotel room to finish packing up, or while Gaster was walking through the chilly woods, or anytime during the boat ride, or on the boat ride into the capital, or halfway to his apartment in the middle of the street, or…

…

Gaster tried to stop thinking quite so much. Quietly, he got up. Reassured Sans in Hands that he’d just be a moment, and then heading up to the bar.

Grillby stared at him impassively. His face paler and his face more yellow than usual. Gaster tried to not feel like it was his fault.

The bar was… was in a strange place today.

It was full of monsters. Every table was packed. Gaster and Sans had waited for some time before a booth had opened up, and it was only luck that meant it had been one of the ones near the back, where they preferred to hide.

Yet, for how packed the bar was, it was almost dead silent.

There were whispers, mostly. Murmurs.

Occasionally, a royal guard would come in, and another guard would stand from their table and walk to them.

They wouldn’t say a word.

They would embrace.

And they would cry.

And they would sit down together again, and order more fries.

…

Gaster tugged his turtleneck down and tried to make eye contact. Grillby’s flames flickered dully around his face, signaling that he was paying attention, despite everything.

“…can I get two burgers and fries to go?” Gaster asked, his voice scratchy and low.

Grillby nodded. Didn’t smile, but he looked like he was considering putting a hand on Gaster’s shoulder.

Grillby turned around and got to work.

000

When Sans was full, Gaster let the boy lean against his side in the booth while he slowly finished his water.

Gaster paid the bill without calling Grillby over, and scooped his arms under Sans’ shoulders and femurs, wrapping the kid up in his coat, careful to not jostle the still-wrapped leg that Sans had scraped up the day before.

He carried the boy back to the hotel, listening to soft snoring against his chest.

Crying must have really tired Sans out. He didn’t wake at all on the trip back to the hotel, where Gaster had already settled the bill earlier—before going out to Grillby’s—and said his goodbyes. All that was left was going up to the room and packing.

He did that just on the inside of the door, levitating the few things left out into the bags they’d been brought in, and then levitating the bags over so he could do the trickier work of buttoning and zipping them shut without having to bend down with Sans.

He had the kid tucked under one arm and ‘carried’ the bags with the other, grunting a little and struggling with doorways, but still evidently not enough to jostle Sans awake. They didn’t see anyone on the streets. Some houses had their colored lights turned off. Some houses were entirely dark, when they’d never been so before.

Sans only woke when they were halfway from Waterfall to Hotland, lulled back gently by the rocking of the waves.

It didn’t matter how gentle though, or how drowsy he’d been. He wasn’t so tired out that he couldn’t begin to cry again. Even if it wouldn’t change anything.

And he cried.

000

Unlike Snowdin, the Capital was alight with color, the newspapers announcing the successful capture of another human soul were on full display, and half the shops had their doors flung wide open, with red buckets of treats that said ‘take one!’ out front, and sales in honor and celebration amid music and noise and the clamor that always was in the city—now louder than ever.

All Gaster could do was thank his lucky stars that he didn’t have any friends to call out to him in the street.

Sans was wide awake now, carried in Gaster’s arms amid the half-levitated suitcases, still forcing frustration through his fatigue and completely oblivious to any glances they were getting. Sans was scowling and refused to move, even if Gaster tried to point out nice tall buildings and bright lights that at any other time, he was certain Sans would have loved to run up to and look at.

But right now, Sans just wanted to go back—… to where he kept signing as ‘home.’

A little hotel room in a snowy, quiet town.

…Yeah. Okay.

…

Sans stayed curled around his arm, then, glaring over Gaster’s shoulder, eyes fixed back the way they’d came.

Gaster stopped trying to talk to him.

It was a long, sweltering walk back to his apartment after several months in cold Snowdin, but he did make it, bags and kid and all.

The door was locked.

…his apartment had a lock _?_

It was locked.

Sans was staring off at a strange intermediate distance between the door and the floor right beneath Gaster’s feet, while still seeing neither of them. He was not paying attention, and didn’t want to be, probably. Gaster tried to stop paying so close attention to the kid and just… look around for a moment while he figured out what to do. He didn’t dare set Sans down, in case the kid suddenly decided to crawl off—which had become _proficient_ at in Snowdin—but he at least was able to set down the luggage in the hallway, sighing a little as he did before glancing to the door right across from his.

Had he given a key to Poe Yo before leaving??

Stars, he couldn’t remember shit anymore. It’d only been a few months. Was his memory _that_ bad? Had he been _that_ sleep deprived, or was it the adrenaline of the time obscuring him?

He didn’t remember at all, but there was unfortunately probably one way to find out, because he… didn’t remember packing his apartment key when he left Snowdin.

In fact, he didn’t remember packing his apartment key at all.

So. He probably… hadn’t. (He was pretty sure his apartment _hadn_ _’_ _t come with a key_.)

Especially considering he didn’t carry it around all the time or lock his apartment. What was someone going to steal? _Used paper?_ Did they have a sudden tea-related emergency and need to raid some from the neighbors’? That, he’d actually have been sympathetic to. He had his energy pills, which he’d forgotten to take a couple times, but _not_ forgotten to pack along with the outerwear and cash.

(and then he’d gone to Snowdin and _gotten more shit_ )

(how did he come back after two months with more shit than he’d bought in three years?)

With utmost hesitance and imminent regret, Gaster knocked on Poe Yo’s door, hoping that the monster wasn’t outside celebrating instead.

“Let yourself in!” called a voice. Gaster felt his chest unknot some. There was some rhythmic thumping. …maybe it was taking him a while to get to the door?

…

Gaster did not want to open the door.

The rhythmic thumping sounded like it was staying in place. Not really getting any closer.

“Are you still there!?”

…

Gaster sighed and reached forward.

Opened the door.

Moved quickly back.

Waited.

…

Nothing.

…

…maybe it hadn’t been booby trapped this time?

…

Breathing a slight sigh of relief as a few more seconds passed with nothing happening, Gaster took a cautious step towards the door, poking his head in.

His head did not go in.

“BLAFGSU”

_CLICK whhiiirrrr_ _…_ _._

Gaster jerked backwards, failing a little, and sputtering with Sans in his arms still as Poe Yo threw down the camera he’d just taken a picture with.

“Oh my goodness!” Poe Yo said, his voice maybe tinting with some semblance of surprise as the jack-in-the-box bounced over on his pogostick foot. “There’s a little skeleton with you!”

“Yef,” Gaster said, eyeholes squinted shut as he tried to dislodged his face from the… “If hif _tape!?_ ”

“Yef!” Poe Yo said, heartless, his lifeless, drawn-on eyes still stuck in unmoving joy, mocking Gaster’s outrage. “You walked right into that one! Hahaha!”

The only sparing thing was that Poe Yo fucking bounced his boxy little ass over to Gaster and immediately started unsticking him as if the shit weren’t fucking clinging to his face.

What _fucking_ kind of tape was that?

“You liked that?” Poe Yo said once he’d ripped the last strip off, gleeful, and Gaster was about to say _no_ , fuck _no way he enjoyed that_ , when he realized—Poe Yo wasn’t talking to him.

Sans giggled quietly in Gaster’s arms, still held securely but… with a front row seat to everything that’d happened.

Giggling.

…fuck, at least he wasn’t traumatized by it. Or something. Obviously, it didn’t occur to Sans that one day _he_ might walk through a door only to find ridiculously sticky, clear tape with a vice grip on his face.

“You should have told me you were pregnant!” Poe Yo said, attention unmercifully back on Gaster. “I wouldn’t have made you get me a souvenir!”

“Uh, no, I wasn’t…” Gaster had not gotten Poe Yo a souvenir. “Thank you for…”

Gaster realized he wasn’t sure if skeletons _could_ get pregnant? Or how that would work? The problems with being the only known adult member of a species…

“Er…”

“Congratulations!!” Poe Yo pulled a kazoo out of his pocket and began to play a celebratory theme.

“Thanks… I uh,” Gaster had to raise his voice above the kazooing, now. It cracked a little. “I, uh, actually wanted to ask if you had my house key? The door is locked?”

The kazoo went off on a high note. “Oh! Yes!”

Poe Yo bounced off to the back of his house. Riffled through something loudly. Gaster heard something break, and then the rattling of chains, and a hand saw, and then something that might’ve been a startled rooster. Sans giggled.

Poe Yo bounded back less than a minute later.

“Here!”

He proudly held a glittering key high pinched between two fingers above his head, presenting it to Gaster. Sans snatched it first, and tried to put it in his mouth.

Gaster snatched it out with a ‘no.’“—..and thank you for watching the place.”

“Of course!” Poe Yo said, bouncing out his apartment and across the hall, picking up the canvas bag and briefcase Gaster had set down, apparently intending to help bring them inside. “It was fun!”

“…fun…?” Gaster asked, a little afraid as he crossed the hall and unlocked the door while Sans sat up against him, eyes more attentive now and suckling his thumb.

“Yes!” Poe Yo said, bouncing into the apartment with the two bags, “It’s not often I get to—“

_SMACK_.

Sans squealed.

Poe Yo stood frozen just inside the doorframe, where a tripwire mechanism had just smacked a month-old whipped cream pie into his face.

“…I… booby trapped it against robbers…” Poe Yo said, some of the rancid cream dribbling onto his sweatshirt.

He let out a whole-body shudder, rattling like a can of horrified beans.

Gaster found himself grinning. A cackle rising out of his throat while Sans pointed to the sour-foam and cooing “Sno! Sno!”

“I guess you’ll have to go find all the other traps you put down, Poe Yo. After all. I couldn’t put down my newborn, could I?”

Sweet, sweet revenge.

000

…

The mood didn ’ t last.

Poe Yo scrubbed the apartment of pranks and traps. Gaster might still find a balloon in his little sink that filled up or squirted instead of giving him water, but that was it, so Poe Yo did eventually go back to his own apartment and holing up again, and Gaster had to set Sans up on the couch with a thin blanket and a bunch of books that Sans wouldn ’ t know how to read.

He eventually gave the kid paper to draw on, hiding away all the rest of his notes so they wouldn’t be ruined, and just shoving his luggage in the corner.

…

The mood was gone by then.

Even Sans seemed to have remembered where he was, even if it wasn’t the lab. He knew the lab was _somewhere_. He knew they were going back soon, even if he didn’t understand why they’d stopped. He knew they weren’t in Snowdin, and he knew they probably— He knew they weren’t in Snowdin, and he knew they weren’t going back.

So he sat on the couch under a thin blanket, twisting paper between his fingers, and Gaster considered just… calling Poe Yo back over.

Just to babysit for a few hours.

…hopefully it would be just a few hours. A few hours while Gaster went back to work with his head down, and embarrassed, and explained why he’d gone rogue and stolen an experiment he knew was not supposed to leave the premises, and then returned unannounced with the experiment with him, and also that he suspected the royal scientist of—

oh...

…oh, fuck it, what was he even accusing Serptrine of?

_Doing his job?_

Experimenting on an experiment??

Of course Sans was scared, he was a kid and Serptrine didn’t explain much, and...

…

His reasoning had seemed so, so fine just… a few weeks ago, when he’d run.

But he was being stupid. He’d been stupid, hadn’t he? He’d panicked. He’d let emotion get the better of him. It took him two months of avoiding thinking about it to realize it.

(Fear.

He’d let _fear_ get the better of him, and he couldn’t even name why anymore. He’d seen an experiment missing and not known why, and he’d panicked, so he stole the experiment so someone would find him missing, and then somehow, in the meantime, Gaster would? What?

_Figure everything out?_

_Be the hero?_

God he was so stupid.

Of course Serptrine wanted Sans to know how to fight, that was as much as Ursama had told him, and he’d been scared by the blaster, and then the human had come, and Gaster had spent yesterday stumbling through Waterfall and holding his breath, passing piles of dust and the first thing he did was run right back home, with the thought of his dragon-skull blaster melting in his mind, wanting to escape the dust, because it was the _Royal Scientist_ , he wouldn’t do something that would—)

…

Of course Sans had been scared. No one else understood what Sans was saying. Sans barely understood what was being said back then. Of course it had been…

…

…

…it was a long walk back into work that morning.

…

He ’ d been stupid to think he could keep his blasters his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm in the middle of moving and ice cold and it's all terrible i com eback and the first thing i do is complain i'm sorry
> 
> Poe Yo still belongs to namesarelame (an anon) on AO3, and first appeared in ch 7


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> goin'a work

It was a long walk from the river to the lab. Gaster didn’t remember paying for the ferrying fee, but he was sure he had, since no one called after him as he got out of the shallow boat. 

The halls felt very cold compared to the rest of Hotland. Somehow, colder than even Snowdin.

The temmie wasn’t at the receptions desk. A shell with two eyestalks and an abundance of furry arms was there instead. Gaster hesitated halfway down the entry hall, not sure if he should check in--but the thought of approaching the desk and speaking, introducing himself, asking the monster to call down to inform of his presence--the nerves won out.

He shuffled the rest of the way down the entryway to the elevator, very aware of two eyestalks swiveling to follow him. But his key still worked. The elevator doors slid open. 

He didn’t look up from his shoes until the doors finally, finally closed. 

Fuck. 

He’d forgotten how exhausting this could be. 

…

Ursama’s office was two floors down. A bit below the labs, a bit above the greenhouses. Gaster didn’t meet more than two people in the hallways, but he still thought he could feel himself being judged around corners and stared at through the little windows in the doors. And at any moment he could imagine someone walking around the corner to spot him hovering outside Ursama’s office, hand not even raised to knock yet. They’d corner him into an explanation. He had to get inside before someone else rounded into the hall, but _knowing_ Ursama was inside and therefore also a person to corner him into an explanation--

Halfway into his thoughts the door to her office fell open. 

Gaster jumped.

She shrieked.

Something fell out of her paws and smashed against the ground. 

...It didn’t smash. It was a plastic cup. 

Gaster was three feet back with a hand over his chest, and Ursama was mirroring his posture in the doorway, her dark eyes wide and dilated. 

“Goodness!” she said. “Gaster!”

“Uhk,” he croaked. 

She covered her eyes with her palm and shook her head, letting out a loose breath as she sighed and bent over to pick up the fallen cup. Her labcoat reached down to her ankles. 

“Come--come on in. You startled me.”

Gaster made a sort of ‘wub wub’ sound somewhere in his throat that she accepted as meaning, ‘me too.’ 

 

(He had temporarily forgotten how to blink and only started to again when he realized his eyesockets could metaphorically dry out.)

Ursama’s office had a flickering light that she informed him was on the fritz again as they sat down, him shuffling quietly into the too-large chair in front of her desk. She abandoned whatever she wanted to do with the plastic cup, setting it on the corner of the desk beside a messy stack of papers. Beside _that_ was a partly filled lantern in case the lights went out again. “Sorry, one second--”

“I can wait,” he croaked, shifting in his seat as Ursama turned around a few times behind her desk, apparently searching for something. Pushed a pair of glasses up and rubbed her eyes, shook her head. 

“No, it’s fine, we were waiting--can you get the door?”

Gaster stood quickly and went to close the door. Promptly back in his seat. She thanked him quietly. Groomed her snout. 

“What  _ WERE YOU THINKING? _ ”

Gaster died immediately.

He melted down in his chair and hid his head between his shoulders and was pretty sure he went momentarily blind, as he had no idea what his eyes were trying to focus on. 

(But Ursama hadn’t been  _ shouting _ \--it had just seemed so loud to him--he just--

He understood that it couldn’t have been heard outside, that she was still rubbing her snout and eyes and she looked  _ exhausted _ , but his body wanted to curl up and hunch away and just take it--)

“I just--what in the world would possess  you to steal CS1 and run off with  _ no explanation _ , and for  _ months _ , with--”

Even though she wasn’t talking quickly, his mind was still fuzzed over with static and he didn’t hear all the words. 

“--We’ve had to stall the project while you were gone and come up with an explanation for the--”

He dug his fingers into the holes in the opposite hand until a sliver of dust scraped free.

“--while a  _ human  _ ran around, and--”

“--I!” Gaster said.

...Ursama paused. Paw away from her nose. Staring at him. Maybe she didn’t mean to stare. Maybe she was just giving attention, and staring was just what it felt like, because he’d finally gotten his eyes focusing again, but he could only dart them to the corner of her desk, watching a place where the edge of a stack of papers and the metal top aligned. 

“I… I came back because of-of the human, actually...” 

...Ursama took another deep breath, sat down in her chair, and Gaster told himself again that she’d never  _ really  _ been angry. 

“...I, uh, I saw something in the woods that looked like a, like my bone constructs, but CS1 was far away--”

Ursama held up a paw. 

“I’m glad you’re safe,” she said, “and that the human gave you a scare, but I need to know  _ why  _ you did something this rash in the first place. Like I said.  _ Normally  _ I’d have never believed it would happen with you, Wingdings.”

He hadn’t heard that before. But he would have to believe she’d said it. It didn’t light up anything warm or affectionate in him. The nickname didn’t even send a twinge of annoyance. He was already sick to his nonexistent stomach.

“I-I- came to suppect SssseeS1 was being harmed here. S-somehow.”

“Being harmed?” She leaned forward a little, snout wrinkling. 

“ _ Somehow _ ,” he repeated. “I-I didn’t find any physical evidence, but he was very distressed whenever I left the room, a-and since learning to speak more--”   
  


“Has he said something to make you support that theory?” 

“Y-yes, he, he expressed some distress about it, um.”

“Anything more concrete than that?”

He glanced up from the edge of the desk where he’d been focused, to Ursama’s hands crossed in front of her on the desk, to her small eyes still staring at him. This wasn’t how he remembered his parents handling things about scared children when he was young; something wasn’t going right and he couldn’t find it in him to remember exactly what Sans had said-- “Well, well he was taken from the room without permission and, and there were additional things he was exposed to without--”

“There’s always tests, Wingdings….”

“But, but he was  _ very upset  _ by them, to the point where he did not want me to leave his side, so I believed my presence was stopping someone from--”

“Who do you honestly believe would do that?” Ursama asked, sighing and rubbing the side of her head, just in front of her twitching ear. She finally closed her eyes and relaxed her face again, but Gaster didn’t feel any better about it. Instead, he felt even heavier in his seat. “I’m sure he was just scared by a technician taking him out for a bath, or--”

“I-I-I was hoping to ask Serptrine.”

…

Ursama didn’t answer him, but one of her eyes popped back open and returned to staring. 

Gaster shrank again. 

“...I’d. Like to ask Serptrine. I-I agree and I’m  _ sure  _ there has to be an explanation. Sans said that Serptrine was there and I’m certain the royal scientist wouldn’t--”

“Sans?”

...Gaster couldn’t seem to ease the cold grip around his soul. 

His jaw was hard to move. 

“...I… gave him a nickname…”

…

He didn’t want to hear Ursama sigh again.

But she did. 

He just tried to focus on his breathing. 

“...Wingdings,” she said, in a terribly gentle voice, leaning forward on her desk again. “...where’s CS1 right now?”

…

“Wingdings. Please answer me.”

“...my apartment. I. Didn’t want to leave him somewhere far, but he was scared to come back to the lab.” 

“He’s expressing emotions now?” 

“...he has been, yes.”

“Okay. We’ll have the room prepared for you when you return with him in an--”

“I’m--” ...There was a way Ursama looked at him when she was interrupted that made the silence feel much, much longer than it must have been. “I’m not… I’m able to sufficiently care for him at my place, I think, so until I get what happened sorted out and talk with Serptrine, I’d rather care for him there, just in case, and--”

…

He met her eyes again and neither of them spoke for a long, long silence. 

The lights flickered out. Then on again. Neither commented. 

...Ursama put her head in her hands. And sighed. 

“You’re on unpaid leave, Wingdings,” she said. “We’ll expect the return of borrowed materials by the end of today and be contacting you with more information later.”

...Gaster nodded. Swallowed. And got to his feet. 

“Right,” he croaked. “I’ll go get that.”

She nodded and didn’t open her eyes to see him, even as her hands once again fell down and her arms folded in front of her on the table. 

“Thank you,” she said.    
  


“Thank you,” he said, and was gone.

\--

There weren’t any pictures of his parents left in his house. He’d gotten a contact print as a present, once, and kept that as best he could, but the earthquake had destroyed most things that he would’ve tried to salvage.

Sans had wandered to the kitchen and rifled around, obviously, but found nothing there. Nothing in the livingroom was of interest to him. There were no books he could easily read yet.

Gaster found him on the floor in front of the couch, with Poe Yo beside him, bouncing in circles and pretending to make different monster noises. 

He hadn’t even prepared a new trap for Gaster, which was… refreshing. In fact, Poe Yo seemed to fail to notice him entirely, busy imitating an Aaron’s “nyeah,” in a dead, monotonous drone. Sans noticed Gaster’s arrival first, actually, stopping his applause abruptly to point Poe Yo towards Gaster and start signing. 

“I’m, I’m going to have to run back,” Gaster muttered, signing along with the words, about a half a step ahead. “I just, just need to return some things…”

Sans nodded and Poe Yo let out a cheerfully monotone, “Alright!!” as Gaster scurried past them, picking up any bolts and screws and wires and soldering irons he’d borrowed from the lab. 

Somehow, his apartment was even emptier when he was done than it was before.

…

Or maybe everything looked emptier, now that he’d gotten used to the little round blue carpet at the foot of the quilt-covered bed, the coffee table and two chairs by the window, and the fireplace heating the teapot in place of a stove.

\--

The shelled monster in the entry hallway to the labs called out to him this time as he came up to their desk to sign the materials back in, and the only reason Gaster knew they were talking to him was because no one else was even around for them to be talking to--but he had to look around to see it, and almost cringed, pointing to himself, and watching their shell bob in a nod.

“Yeah, you! Your interview went that well?”

The worst part of this conversation was that he had no idea why it was happening. 

“I-interview?” 

“Yeah!” said the monster. They had a high, soprano voice that matched exactly nothing of their outside appearance. “Are you not the new hire?”

Oh thank fuck. 

He signed his name quickly. Gstr on the dotted line.

“N-No, no, I’ve been here a while.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “I haven’t seen you around before?”

“I’ve, I’ve been away,” he said as he took one hopeful half-step towards the elevator, then another. “I, uh, I guess you’re filling in for Temmie while she does the same, huh?” 

“Temmie?”

“The, uh, the front desk… person…?”

“Uh, well, I’m actually new here, too, so? But I’m the only one here?” 

“Oh,” he said, and continued trying to shuffle towards the elevator while the front desk person continued to talk.

“The person before me got fired for letting someone steal some supplies. Is that what you mean?” 

Oh. 

“Uh, hahaha, I wouldn’t know. I’ve been gone a while. Have to go to a meeting, again, though. Bye!”

He. 

He circled his thumb inside his hand’s hole as he climbed, shaking, into the elevator.

He’d drop off the bag of supplies he’d carried in with him. 

The power went off halfway through the return trip back up. He opened the side door of the elevator and tiredly started pulleying the thing up by hand. It was like pulling on a safety-lock seatbelt until you were on a new floor. There had to be a better way to do this.

(When elevators didn’t have power, the humans called them ‘dumb-vators’. Gaster really hated dumb-vators.)

Back to the piers. Back to the rivers and rivermen. Three more gold coins to get him back to the edge of the Capital. Back into town. 

Gaster was exhausted by the time he climbed the stairs to his apartment. Making the round trip twice in one day didn’t seem like such a severe undertaking, but today it had been. He leaned against the wall outside his apartment when he finally got there, catching his breath and wishing the Capital were a bit cooler before twisting the knob and shuffling in to tell Poe-Yo that he could head home now when he realized that Poe Yo and Sans were no longer in front of the couch where he’d spotted them last. 

Gaster groaned. 

That pogo stick better not have tried to use his kitchen or made a mess of his backroom storage. 

Grumbling quietly, he shuffled over to the kitchen and poked his head in, expecting the whole place to be flooded, or at least to see--what-- _ sauce  _ everywhere, or something. 

...it was somehow disconcerting to see the kitchen in the same state as he’d left it. 

He stepped back again, looking around the livingroom once more, even though there wasn’t really anywhere to hide except behind the couch. 

“Poe Yo?” he called, and did glance behind the couch. No one there. 

“Poe Yo, I’m back…”

Gaster opened his back storage closet. Or tried. It was a little bit stuck.

He braced his foot on the wall to try and tug the door open, grunting with one hefty tug. The door squealed. 

Ugh. 

The air inside was  _ stale  _ and musty-cold. No one’d opened this room at all since he headed to Snowdin. 

…

He shut the door again. Hard. It squeaked back into place, even though the knob stuck and didn’t go back into the wall all the way. 

He tried to shake off the musty smell and swallowed his nerves back down. 

Turned sharpy. 

Back into the hall. And across the way.

He rapped his knuckles against Poe Yo’s apartment quickly, with less hesitation than he’d ever felt outside that door, and more trepidation than he’d ever imagined. 

“Just a second!!” came the monotone, nasally voice. 

And a second later there was Poe Yo, opening the door, and looking up with his jack-in-the-box head, beaming. “Oh! You’re back already!”

“Where is Sans?” Gaster said.  
  
“He just went to see you in the lab!” Poe Yo reported, striking a salute. “The slime you sent up here picked him up just a half hour ago!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N ‘dumb-vator’ is a play off ‘dumbwaiter’, where if you use a german pronunciation, they’re pronounced about the same. Dumbwaiters nowadays are freight elevators and run off electricity, but you can find them in houses that far predate electricity. If you’ve ever taken a tour of the Founder’s houses in the US, you’ll probably have seen one-- they were often used to lift wine or single meals up to different floors in the house so they didn’t have to be carried from the cellars.


	15. MOOVING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What up we're continuing, but over here this time: http://askmicrowavegaster.tumblr.com/

Like what the preview said, this fic IS continuing, but I've been at a writer's block with it for a while, so we're, uh.... cutting the knot a little and taking out the 'writing' portion of it. 

[Microwave Grapes will be continuing exclusively on its askblog linked here.](http://askmicrowavegaster.tumblr.com/) Thank you for sticking with us so long for something I began while sleep deprived and ill in another country two years ago. I hope you continue to enjoy it to its end!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Microwave Grapes (Podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6312496) by [Beabaseball (beabaseball)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beabaseball/pseuds/Beabaseball), [darlingsweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingsweet/pseuds/darlingsweet)




End file.
